


The Case of the Dead Vinewood Producer

by DJ_Polish



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: 1940s Los Santos, 1940s Vinewood, All clichés of a noir, Alternate Universe - Noir, Cameo locations from LA Noire, Crossover GTA V / LA Noire, Homme Fatale, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LSPD, M/M, Murder, Old-fashioned flashback, Plot-Heavy Trikey, Possible Eventual Betrayal, Possible Final Standoff, Richards Majestic Productions, Vintage trikey, everybody smokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-13 12:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5708284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_Polish/pseuds/DJ_Polish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael "Mickey" De Santa is the owner of two successful nightclubs in Vinewood and a newly built mansion by the Rockford Gardens. He started in the 1930s as a nobody, a five-and-dime grifter from the Midwest, proceeded later as a mobster in Los Santos, and today, in 1947, he's a respectable (half)legit businessman in Vinewood, married to the daughter of the deceased drug baron Charlie Griffith. When we first meet him, he offers a trivial mission for a Trevor G. Philips... at least, at first, it seemed to be trivial...</p><p>- This fic is an "hommage" to Michael Townley's love for the genre of the classic film noir. I wrote it hoping he would love it to play a leading part in a story like this. Although this fic is set into a 1940s AU, some elements of his life and fate can be familiar from the canon universe; it's karma, I think.<br/>Final notes - about the characters, the locations and the noir endings - are at the end of the last chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reet, Petite and Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Reet, Petite and Gone" is a musical and hit song from 1947, performed by Louis Jordan.

The only rays of sunlight that could sneak into the small office room from the cellar windows fell straight on the desk. Trevor Philips took a side glance on the notes and unopened envelopes as he was pacing around, waiting for his client, or his potential client, god only knew who the fuck he was or what he wanted. He stopped to admire the details of a little statue carefully placed on the corner of the desk; it was a black and gold figure of a man with jackal head, richly decorated, holding a golden spear; it looked like an ancient god, threatening like a judge of all Times.

Philips pulled out his hand from his pocket and gently touched the long pointy ears of the statue.

„It's not real, you know.”

The voice he heard suddenly from behind belonged to a man who quietly entered the room and might have observed him for some moments before opened his mouth. He approached Philips and standing by his side, he took the statue into his hands. He was sharply dressed, his jaws shaved smooth, his hairline receding in spite of his relatively young age.

Yet he didn't say a word of greeting, just stared at the little thing with a tender look, and added:

“I mean, not ancient, or gold, or whatsoever. It was a movie prop. Have you seen the _Nefertiti, Queen of Egypt_?”

He glimpsed at Philips' profile, clearly expecting a positive answer.

Philips shrugged his shoulder with a gesture which revealed that Nefertiti meant less than nothing to him.

“No, I can't recall.”

“You haven't?! Man, it was the grandest production of the 30's. A friend of mine gave this to me as a gift. It's from the movie set.” and he smiled a bit proudly, but not on Philips, but on the garnished object. The little jackal-headed god didn't return the smile, just stared back at them.

The man placed the ornament back on the desk and finally offered his hand to Philips.

“Michael De Santa. You must be Mr. Philips. Martha has told me you are here. Take a seat. Would you like a coffee?”

“Trevor G. Philips. No, thanks, I'm coming from a diner.” He sat into an armed chair and rested his fedora hat held by a hand on his thigh. He looked around with a hesitant carelessness in his eyes; maybe a little disappointed, as well. The office didn't look promising; it was furnished cheaply – apart from some fancy-looking decorative objects that must have been props, too – and the whole establishment didn't shine as bright as he expected. After all, he was in the back office of a prosperous nightclub of Vinewood. He expected something more impressive.

“Trevor G. Philips.” repeated De Santa. “What's the G. for?” asked with a bitter smile while he reached for a cigarette case on the desk and opening it, offered it to his guest.

 Philips took one, glanced up to the other man's face, and he looked like he just decided that he would entirely dislike this De Santa prick.

 “Gregarious.” he replied with a sharp edge, clamping the cigarette into his mouth.

 Michael De Santa sat behind his desk and considered this stranger who was sitting in his office and mocked him. Philips looked like a cheap drifter. He wore a faded, worn brown suit, a greyish brown fedora, and his stubble was at least a week old, which was not a usual sight in Vinewood. His hair was unkept. His shirt looked even like hadn't been changed for a few days. Michael observed as he lit his cigarette, exhaled the smoke and lounged back comfortably in the chair.

 “Smokey Giles recommended you to me.” he said with a cooler tone. “It's said you are a man who find those who don't wanna be found.”

 “I did some jobs like that, yeah. I work mainly for bail bondsmen... among others.” He exhaled smoke. “What do you want from me, Mr. De Santa? You want me to track someone?”

 Michael still seemed to be hesitant. His eyes ran all over him.

 “Was it really you who caught Jack Serano?”

 Trevor Philips rubbed his stubbled jaw with a gesture of uninterest. “I was. Not that it was worthwhile. I couldn't get jackshit for that wretch. I just wasted the ammo.”

 De Santa made an unintended move in his chair, not being able to hide his rising interest. He decided to take a cigarette for himself, too, but didn't light on because at that moment he couldn't take off his eyes of him.

 “The ammo? As I recall, he wasn't hurt and neither was you.”

 “No, but I had to take out his gunmen.”

 In De Santa's eyes, a new expression flashed as he was gazing at Philips: respect. Maybe a bit of envy, too.

 “I want someone, Mr. Philips, to find out where my wife goes to some afternoons instead of attending her golf lessons, and who is that dickhead she sees.”

 Philips burst into a tired, disillusioned grin. “Come on, why don't you get a private investigator for this? It's not really my profile.”

 “Because you are new in town? and, if and when it's true what Smokey blabbed about you, you haven't... blended yet in Los Santos? Look, you won't be recognized while you may ask questions around. You must know, Mr. Philips... the thing is that me and my wife...” Michael's fingertips were tapping the surface of the desk as he tried to phrase. “Some decisions that we make when being young, can have awkward lifelong consequences. I ain't an ideal husband, damn, I never was – for that matter, she ain't an ideal wife either, but that's not the point! The point is, that I want to know. If she decided to stray away, fine! Fine! But fuck that, I want to know.”

 He gazed straight into Philips's eyes as if he wanted to figure out if he believed him or not.

 Trevor took his last shot of his cigarette and didn't show any signs of reaction.

 “I assure you, Mr. Philips, I'll be generous. If you succeed and give me the information, you can expect a considerable bonus.” Michael opened a drawer of the desk and pulled out a framed photo, handing it over to Philips. “This is Irene.”

 The studio photo portrayed a blonde woman about thirty, posing with slightly tilted head, glancing aside, not directly into the camera, with narrowed eyes, and as it was the custom, with perfect make-up on her face and an artistically arranged updo. She looked distrustful and at the same time provocative.

 Philips couldn't help studying De Santa's face as they were both focusing on the picture. He didn't see even a half of that tenderness that he saw on Michael's face before when he had cherished that ridiculous movie prop statue. Somehow, this amused him.

 “I'll do it, Mr. De Santa, but I insist to get an honest answer to my question. Do you want to keep your marriage?”

 Michael gazed at him with wide open, blue eyes. “Yes. Frankly, yes, I do.”

 * * *

 

_Michael “Mickey” De Santa; owner of two succesful nightclubs in Vinewood and a newly built mansion by the Rockford Gardens where all the new-money douchebags gather lately, close enough to Vinewood theaters and studios to rub elbows with the stars. God only knows why these million-dollar mobsters adore movie stars so much. Perhaps acting is the only type of art that they are able to recognize and understand. They act as well, after all. Just not as good as June Ballard or Joan Lelise on the fucking silver screen._

_It took a few days for me to add together who my new acquaintance was. De Santa started as a fucking nobody, a five and dime grifter from the Mid West. Came from a farming village or a trailer park, or some shithole like that. But he must have had some talent because by the age of 25 he already worked for Eddie Wolff's mob in Southern Los Santos. Certainly he must know how to shoot a gun, no doubt. Eddie Wolff ran mostly protection rackets._

_But Michael was only waiting for something bigger to come along, and shit, wasn't he a lucky son-of-a-bitch? Somehow he met Charles Griffith in Central LS, who was, by that time, a respectable millionaire of the state, gaining his fortune from drugs, prostitution and gambling in the '30s, but by the '40s, he was almost a legit businessman, his wealth laundered clean. After some management jobs he did for him, Michael married his daughter. By the age of 33, he was the husband of the Griffith heiress._

_Come to think of it, considering that we are about the same age with this prick, isn't it fucking unfair?_

_Irene Griffith, the only child of Charles, has been raised as spoiled as an heiress could have been; she became, and still is a well-known socialite in Vinewood; especially since her father's death two years ago. Every fucking starlets, mobsters and studio owners know that she is the money bag; and Michael is only her husband – not entirely penniless, since the nightclubs are his own; but without Irene, he would surely run only his petty heists and rackets and should say goodbye to his 400-dollar tuxedos._

_After I gathered all this, I knew De Santa told me the truth when he said he wanted to keep his marriage; hell, who would throw away the goose who lays the golden egg? And I firmly believed that no emotions, but money motivated him when hired me. He doesn't risk losing Irene. Not a fucking miracle that my work was worth a few grands for him. Has to be worth for him even a million..._

  _* * *_

 

Trevor Philips was sitting in a dark Chevrolet Sedan, parked across the street where the De Santa's lived. It was a quiet neighborhood, residential only, far from the urban traffic, the old Victorian-style rundown family houses became more and more scarce here, giving space to the newly built villas and mansions, like the De Santa's.

So this is where Michael De Santa lived. The house looked like something that was maybe defined as “Spanish colonial” or some shit like that. Philips didn't care, and didn't like it. It looked fake. Suddenly he realized that it reminded him of a movie set.

In front of the building, in the middle of a front yard, a white round fountain was standing, its water softly flowing downward over its edges; the round little yard was surrounded by potted palms and hydrangeas. The only vehicle to be seen by the mansion was a service truck, its side branded with a company logo. Philips patiently lit a cigarette and waited, his eyes mostly fixated on the truck. It was the middle of the afternoon.

Finally the main entrance door of the house opened and a housemaid appeared; she wore a kind of a uniform with apron, dark green and white, her blond hair gathered under a headpiece. She opened the door of the truck, slipped in, and every passersby would have said that she finished her work inside the mansion and now she was heading home.

Philips knew that wasn't true. It wasn't the first time he was tailing her in the last few days, and he more or less knew where she would end her tour but he had to be absolutely sure. When the service truck was driven out to the road, Trevor also ignited the engine of his car.

This time wasn't different from the other occasions: after a long drive of tailing, the truck parked behind an upscale apartment building called Wilson's Hotel, near the service entrance door, and she walked in. Philips leaned back, stretched his legs and prepared for at least an hour waiting; he pulled out his notebook and checked over his handwritten notes for the last time. Names, times and days, and some other stuff. All this wasn't particularly interesting, and he couldn't wait to make his final report to De Santa and close this case once and for all. It took a fucking week away from his life.

 He was considering though, closing his notebook, what he might have missed. Was there an element he didn't notice? He shrugged and knew it was possible, but he forgave himself for that. A missed detail of a cheating wife's case couldn't be fatal.

 He decided to call on Michael the next day.


	2. Let's Misbehave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Let's Misbehave" is the evergreen hit song by Cole Porter from 1927.

The _Club 21_ , one of Michael De Santa's nightclubs was located down the eastern end of the Vinewood Boulevard; rubbing its elbows with such more famous places like the Blue Room Jazz Club, but still laying low enough to avoid too much attention from the authorities. In the morning hours its front gate was closed; Trevor parked in the back alleyway and entered the service back door. He immediately bumped into a young runner-looking guy with a notebook and pencil in his hands; he was expecting him and showed him the way to Michael's door.

The office door was wide open and Michael wasn't alone inside, Trevor could see a young long-haired woman and a tall muscleman next to him; Michael had just touched the girl's chin, turning her face toward the light of the lamps.

“Alright, baby, let me see your face.” he heard Michael. Trevor stepped closer, leaned against the door frame without entering the room, lowering his hands into his pants pockets, expressing a slight impertinence with the line of his shoulders. No one inside the room paid attention to him.

Illuminated by the ceiling lamp, her pale face revealed two terrible bruises; one on her side of face, close to her eye, another one on her side of mouth, making her lips swollen and colored with shades of purple.

“We know, Mickey, that you insist to be aware about these kinda stuff so I brought her in for you to see.” the thug addressed him, swaying nervously from one side to the other. He was watching Michael as if waiting for his decision or order.

“Have you got like this on any other body parts?” asked Michael, narrowing his eyes as he studied her injuries.

The girl shook his head. “Only my face.” With lips swollen, her words sounded muffled. Michael lowered his hand, and instead of examining her bruises, now he peered into her eyes.

“I'm sorry for what happened, Maisie. It won't go without consequences. So, which bastard did it?and no way to lie to me, you hear me?”

“It was Tony Balasco.” she replied. “He was drunk.” she added, which sounded like a failed attempt to defend him.

Michael's eyebrows furrowed and it was visible how he let the waves of rage overwhelm him. With a crazy flash in his eyes, he punched into the air: “And why that piece of shit would think he can ruin my girls, huh? I told him! if he hurt my girls again, I'd skin him alive!” He waved a quick gesture for his goon and his voice turned gravelly. “Okay, go with the boys, find him, and dump him into the LS River! Just send one into his nose before you do that, on my behalf!”

“But Mickey, I beg you, stop and think a minute, Balasco has bodyguards, you want a gang war?!”

“Sonny. If you say _but Mickey_ again, I leave bruises on your face just like these on Maisie's. Go and tell the boys that Balasco is banned from the clubs. And if any of the girls spread their legs for him, gonna be fired!” He took a quick glimpse at the woman standing there frozen, scared to death. “And Sonny, take her to our doctor, tell him it's my bill. You know where he lives. Be discreet.” And with a last furious grunt, he dismissed them.

Philips' eyes followed the girl – or more precisely, the sight of her ass in the tight skirt - as she was escorted out of the building by Michael's goon, then turned his head to Michael with a knowing grin.

“Oh, uh, mayyybe not the right moment to make a call...?” he said with a taunting tone, as if he enjoyed to stir his anger again. He touched the brim of his hat lightly with a fingertip to greet De Santa. Michael just half-shrugged with a tilt of head, and took a cigarette from the case.

“I'm doing my job. Come in. Sorry you had to hear this.” and put the cigarette into his mouth.

Philips didn't seem to feel sorry about that at all. While he walked in and took his seat, slowly, like a stray cat sneaking in, he was watching Michael's every little movements like he just discovered a fascinating new species. He was amused, and more than amused. He just couldn't take his eyes off his hands as he dropped the lighter on the desk and his face as he buried it into the first cloud of smoke. He was still steaming by his previous rage. Trevor was captured by the sight of a steaming De Santa. Suddenly, like an unexpected backstab, it occurred to him that he didn't want to close the case yet. He didn't understand why.

“Fuck.” sighed De Santa. “It doesn't matter. I'm all ears. Have you found out if there's a prick whom she is seeing?”

“Yep... sorry for the bad news.”

Michael leaned against the desk while smoking, and didn't look at Philips; he was staring at a distant point on the wall as he was listening to the details.

“Your wife has lotsa nerve, Mr. De Santa; she and her boy figured out that both your home and the prick's apartment employ the same cleaning service. So! when they wanted to meet, your wife borrowed the service truck, left your house in a maid's uniform, and waltzed into the Wilson's Hotel as a maid and no one took a single glance at her face. Who would look at a maid's features, right? Except a guy like me who every now and then fucks one.”

Michael's face seemed to be darkened behind the clouds of smoke, a mixture of shame and smoldering rage.

Philips slid a brown envelope on the desk for Michael. “Ya'll find the details in it.”

“The name?” asked Michael.

“Gerald Schultz. Movie producer, Browne Canyon Studio, currently living in the Gentry Manor Hotel. But renting an apartment at the Wilson's, too.”

“Schultz?!” Michael stared at Trevor, clearly the name was familiar to him. “That motherfucker?! We have been... shit, we were planning... I was planning to invest in his next movie! It would have been my first one. I met him a few times, yes, even in his Wilson apartment! And I was gonna pay that turd a couple million to fuck my wife?!... Are you... Are you sure they were screwing, right?”

“I don't have explicit details, but reeally, you think your wife went there twice a week to clean the bathtub?”

Michael's eyebrows began to turn into the already familiar shape of the threatening furrow, and his tone lowered. “Watch your mouth when you talk about my wife - buddy. It ain't your business no more.” With a heated move, he opened a drawer and flipped a white envelope on the desk, right next to the other one. “The payment that we agreed on. Thanks for the job. And now, if you would excuse me, I have things to do.”

Philips stood up, reached for the stack and slid it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “It was a pleasure.” He nodded, trailing the tip of his tongue around in his mouth for a second, and left the office. As he walked out, his hand glided under his jacket, adjusting or checking something that was fixed under his armpit.

_* * *_

Trevor was sitting at the wheel of a 2-door Lincoln, fingers tapping on the steering column, parking at the other side of the Vinewood Boulevard right across the _Club 21_. After he left Michael's office, he had to wait no more than five minutes until he noticed De Santa driving his car out of the alley from behind the club.

He jerked his head. “For fuck's sake, that wasn't enough time even to check my notes...” murmured Trevor and he started the engine. Blending in the car traffic, he began to tail Michael's car, and he had to catch up the speed since Michael seemed to be very much in a hurry.

_* * *_

The Wilson's apartment building was a pale yellow high-rise, with wide balconies and palm trees around the entrance. Looked shiny new, and pricey enough to keep away the undesireables. Michael De Santa walked into the building so determined and confident as if he arrived for an appointment; instinctively he pushed his fedora into his forehead a bit to hide his upper face and without any hesitation he pushed in the wings of the entrance door and headed for the elevator.

Philips was watching him from a distance as he made his way inside. He had some ideas what would happen next, and guessing about that was fun. He hadn't much experience with furious husbands, but he thought he had already seen enough of Michael De Santa to give a good guess what he would do upstairs, in Schultz' home.

He got out of his car slamming its door, and strolled along the side of the building, for the direction of the service door at the back. He even thought that he had enough time to finish a cigarette while he waited, so he picked a matchbook from his pocket and lit one.

But he was wrong; Michael emerged from the building earlier than he expected.

_* * *_

When Michael burst out from the service entrance briskly, visibly adjusting a holster under his suit jacket, he found himself almost face to face with Trevor; Philips stood there frozen, just a few steps away, next to a dumpster, cigarette between his fingers and stared at Michael. For a speechless second, they just eyed each other.

Michael looked dizzy and slightly confused; he didn't wear his hat; and undeniably, unmissable tiny spots of blood were spattered on his shirt.

“The hell are you doing here?” Michael breathed. Trevor threw his cigarette away and slammed him against the wall, grabbing his shoulder.

“Where the fuck is your hat?”

“How should I know?! What are you, my...” Michael couldn't finish his question, Trevor interrupted him immediately with a snort.

“It's a clue, idiot. You have to go back for it! And now!” He paused, then put the question. “You croaked him, right?” It was hinted in his tone, that although he knew that was the truth, he still resisted to believe it.

Michael stared straight into his eyes. “I guess...” he replied. Then he side-glanced at the door beside them. “What if the cops are already there?”

“We take the fucking risk.” It sounded like an order; Philips shoved Michael back into the building, and as he followed him suit, with a smooth movement of his hand he drew out his handgun from beneath his jacket.

The foyer, miraculously, was quiet and abandoned, only the distant engine noise of the elevator could be heard from upstairs, so they were slowly heading for the service staircase in the back; it was likely that the occupants didn't use that frequently. They had to climb five floors as quietly as possible; Michael proceeded as first, his weapon already in his hand, and Trevor as a backup; their eyes sometimes met en route, being ready to alert the other in case of something suspicious. They didn't hear any noise of incoming police intervention or curious neighbors sniffing around, so they reached the door of the Schultz apartment unnoticed.

Trevor glanced at Michael who was melting into the wall by the door frame, then with a tender kick of his shoe tip, he pushed the unshut door wide open. Both of them infiltrated and shutting the door behind them, they stopped in the richly furnished living room.

In the middle of the room, the lifeless body of Gerald Schultz was lying on his back, his arms spread wide as he had collapsed on the floor by the force of the shot right into his face. His features were covered by fresh red blood and the same redness was spattered around the room, on the rug and the pieces of furniture.

Trevor just stood there and gazed right at the mess of the dead face.

“Shit.”' he stated.

Michael tended to agree with him. “Yeah... shit.”

Trevor combed the floor carefully with his eyes while asking the other man: “You have your stuff?” and noting Michael picking his fedora from the floor not far from the entrance, he added: “Then let's get the fuck out of here.” And holding his handgun by the level of his shoulder, he and Michael crept out one after the other to the hallway.

Although they couldn't hear footsteps or noise inside the building, and they had rightful hopes to reach the staircase without any heat, they were not even two doors away from the Schultz apartment when suddenly another apartment entrance opened, and a curious head of a neighbor peeked out. Shocked by the sight of two strangers creeping in the hallway holding guns, the chubby middle-aged man quickly opened his door wide, and with a startled facial expression he began to open his mouth to yell or shout something.

In a second, Trevor stretched his arm sideways, perfectly aligned with his shoulder and his aiming handgun toward the man's skull. He fired, and the neighbor fell back before he could say a word.

Michael bit his lip but didn't say anything until they reached the exit on the first floor.

“You didn't have to do that!” he yelled.

“He saw our faces, alright? At a crime scene. Wrong place at the wrong time, buddy. Let's get going!” Trevor barked, and holstering their guns they rushed out to the back alleyway.

_* * *_

“So... what happened up there?” It was Philips who was driving De Santa's car while the owner curled up in the passenger seat and moaned. Philips glanced at him from time to time while he did his best to leave the district as fast as they could.

“Oh, man! That fucking dickhead. I asked him: Are you screwing my wife? Shit, he didn't even deny that. He said my wife had told him we had an arrangement. A fucking arrangement!”

“So you arranged him?” Philips asked this in a tone that was intended to sound angry but underneath, undeniably it had an amused ring.

“After that I said something that I shouldn't have said, then HE said something that he shouldn't have said, and then I – shot him dead.” Michael didn't sound like feeling regret or something; recalling the scene he talked about made his eyes sparkle and his cheeks flush. He felt much better. “He had it so coming, the motherfucker. I'm glad I did it! Whoo! I ain't felt pumped like this for years.” And he flashed a grin for Trevor. “I don't know why you tailed me today, buddy, and I hope you're gonna tell me, but I'm... kind of obliged. Thanks.”

“Obliged, huh?” snorted Trevor. “Then let me tell you – buddy - that I'm even more obliged. Thank you so much for putting me on the list of suspects, fuck you!”

“What?! Whoa! Did I tell you to shoot that dude?”

“You hired me to find the guy who fucked your wife; then you came here and killed him; how do you think it looks like?! If you're gonna be connected to the vic, the cops would suppose you hired me to croak him, it's clear as hell. They know I'm a fucking bounty hunter!” Trevor furiously increased the speed of the car. “I just don't get why you did it yourself? For a few grands I would have done it myself and you'd stay clean.”

Michael rubbed his bridge of nose. “It wasn't planned, okay? I couldn't really think clearly.” It sounded sincere. Trevor was watching him, his profile with that hawk-like sharp nose, his thin-lipped mouth that always looked like a sarcastic smirk was lingering there, and his blue eyes that expressed ice-cold confidence and playful irony at the same time.

Philips stopped the car in an alleyway which connected two streets and was surrounded by red-brick high-rises; they weren't far from the Legion Square. Michael looked around and understood that they had to go on separate ways.

“Listen, I never hired you for shit, alright? I'm gonna make some phone calls and arrange an alibi, and I'm clean.”

“Considering you knew each other, you had business plans together, and he fucked your wife, you need a damn huge alibi, man.” Trevor still sounded hostile.

Michael smiled. “You know, after you blew someone's brain out for me today, the least is that you can call me Michael. My friends call me Mickey.” And he curled his lips into such a smile that was intended to soften Trevor's rage.

Trevor just jerked his shoulder with a gesture of refusal. “...Michael will do to me.”

Michael kept smiling, although a shade of sorrow seemed to infiltrate into his playful tone. “Ah, I get it, so no friendship, huh? Alright, whatever you say.” He ran his eyes over Trevor's frame, with such an ironic, taunting smile that it made Trevor feeling strangely embarrassed, and he felt a beat in his stomach.

He opened the door to get out of the car, and Michael slid over to the driver's seat. When Michael put his hand on the ignition key, Trevor knocked his window from outside and Michael rolled it down.

“Hey. What if your wife's gonna blow the whistle on you?” He asked.

Michael looked at him with the expression of a responsible businessman.

“I arrange her the same way, I guess.” And he drove away leaving Trevor behind.


	3. Stone Cold Dead in the Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Stone Cold Dead in the Market" is a 1946 hit song recorded by the duo of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan.

_Instead of having fun to witness Michael De Santa to beat the movie producer to a pulp in his own apartment, hasn't that knucklehead shot him dead? And doing that, hasn't he dragged me into his mess of a fucking murder case eventually? On the other hand though, to help him out not to fuck it up proved to be useful; otherwise we both would be in an even bigger trouble now. That fucking turd._

_Gerald Schultz's murder has been dominating the front pages of the papers for days. The Los Santos Herald, the Vinewood Evening Express, all make pathetic attempts to give Schultz an aura of success and glamour, although it's obvious he didn't have a notable moment in his fucking life apart from licking the asses of the rich and famous, and having an affair with the Griffith broad. But it's only me who knows about the latter._

_From what the papers told so far, hardly any clues are found by the cops. The lock of the door was intact, so Schultz must have known the murderer as he had let him or her in; on the other hand, a neighbor of his was also killed on the same floor of his apartment but with another weapon; which means the murderer wasn't alone; and two armed fellows instead of one means, even by my own standards, a business showdown, and not a spur-of-the-moment revenge by a hot-headed husband._

_But adding more twist into the mess, hired guns generally don't shoot directly into the face of the target, since they want to leave the vic identifiable, so it has made the case even more fucked up._

_The LSPD is trying to find Schultz's connections to the rivals in the movie industry and the Vinewood racketeer gangs, and although Michael, as one of his acquaintances, has been put on the list of suspects, he hasn't attracted much suspicion. He has proved to be a smart egg to arrange a good alibi and performed well in an LSPD interview Downtown._

_And of course, he's smart enough not to make a contact with me. I give him that. After all, even if he walks away innocent, this guy must be trouble, and irritable as shit. I hope I don't have to see the face of that smug son of a bitch again._

_* * *_

It was around 7 PM when Michael knocked on the door of his wife's bedroom. He didn't wait for an answer and entered at once.

They had separate bedrooms in the De Santa house; they didn't meet often even if both of them were at home. Irene spent the morning hours mostly at home, receiving her masseuse and the manicure girl, and she usually never left home before 5 PM to make her social calls or to go out for cocktails. Michael's schedule was more hectic, he was able to disappear for whole days or nights without giving a clue where he was.

This evening he wore a tuxedo and a clean shaven face when he joined Irene in her room, clearly intending to leave for a party with her; but she was sitting by her vanity table wearing only a long bedroom gown, staring into the mirror blankly. Apart from the usual make-up and perfume stuff on the table, he saw glass medicine phials lying there as well.

“Baby?” he greeted her and their eyes met in the mirror. Irene's face reflected apathy and indifference.

“Sorry, Michael, I can't go out today. I tried to, but I just can't.”

She didn't explain why and Michael didn't ask, but he believed he knew. Schultz was murdered only a few days ago. Michael often wondered if she “knew” how and by whom, and whether she knew that he “knew” that she knew. But they didn't talk about it.

“Then I have to go without you, darling – again.” he replied finally, with an annoyed hint in his tone, implying it was not the first time lately.

“I'm sick of how unsupportive you are, Michael. I don't feel well, and the only thing you care about is your fun!”

“Hey, I'm not having _fun_!” Michael raised his voice. “I'm so not having fun to meet your folks to keep my business running, and pretending I like them otherwise they would take over my operations, or tell you what, simply gun down my clubs into pieces, forcing me to close them!”

“You and your clubs.” scoffed Irene. “Tony Balasco complained me the other day that your apes hadn't let him in.”

She definitely touched a nerve because Michael's voice twitched with a gasp of anger. “You'd better not to mention that asshole in my house, you hear me? I don't like that you're in such a good terms with him. Besides, just tell me, would you let someone waltz into your house if you know he's gonna break all your furniture? That rude animal is beating the girls.”

“The girls?!” Now Irene became just as irritated as her husband already was. She turned toward Michael and she ran her eyes over him despised. “Your clubs are brothels. I'm married to a pimp. A pimp!”

Michael chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh yeah, so now I'm a pimp. Okay. You know what, I tell you this, I'm not only a pimp, but I have poker rooms in the back, too, and I get my fucking cut for that. And there are fellows who sell drugs to my men, who resell it to the patrons also for a cut. But it's nothing new for you, baby, because your father did the same, just in a much bigger scale than me – am I right?” He spread his arms with open palms. “But hey, if you don't like that, then let's talk about how you can be a wife of not a pimp. We have discussed this before, haven't we?” He plopped himself down into an armchair and his fingers searched over his inside pockets, perhaps looking for a cigarette case, but in vain. “You could be a wife of a movie producer if you don't refuse the whole idea from the start.”

“Your idea would cost me a million, Michael, that's why I refuse.”

“Sure it would – as a start. But it's an investment. Do you know how much the _Curse of Triton_ made in the first year? About four millions. The budget was less than one. I just have to find a reliable studio and a promising script, and the fucking millions gonna roll in!” Michael leaned back, steepling his hands, staring at Irene with wide open, honest eyes. He made an effort to look as professionally convincing as he could be. But Irene didn't seem to buy it.

“Michael – making a movie is not as simple as running your rackets. If you want to blow a fortune on your childish dreams, do it with your own money. I won't.” and she turned back to the mirror, and began to take out the hair pins from her updo, one after the other.

Michael was  scanning her for a minute, he was watching as her blond locks of hair fell on her neck and bare shoulders then  stood up and reached for  the door knob. “ And I won't beg you, for sure.” he said with a raspy  voice before he left her room.

_* * *_

The building of the Hotel El Mar was squeezed tightly between two more robust and much higher brick apartment blocks somewhere in Vinewood Downtown. Only the letters of the neon sign claimed the attention of the passersby, otherwise the hotel entrance was narrow and hardly noticeable, the windows were mostly dark and heavily curtained. A flophouse – that was the general judgement about the place; you could even pay a room for an hour only and no one asked anything.

Trevor Philips liked to stay in places like that. The next door neighbors changed so quickly that no one learned his face or name; and none of them was a nosy type, minding their own business only. Besides, the hotel receptionist knew not only how to keep his mouth shut, but also how to warn his renters – for a small bribe - if anyone happened to sniff around the hotel.

The room of course was scruffy and cheap, not much money wasted on cleaning or repainting, but Trevor never cared much about these things. He already lived here for three weeks, and the week-old newspapers, torn paperbags from grocery shops, empty cigarette packs, unclean plates and coffee cups of previous canned dinners began to pile up.

On that cloudy day he was making his way to a bar where he was going to meet Smokey Giles; hopefully a new job was emerging on the horizon for Trevor. Leaving the hotel, popping up his jacket collars in the cold wind, he stopped by the parking lot across the street. Glancing over the cars parking there, he almost decided which one would be chosen for his daily ride when the melodic “Read all about it!” shouts of the newspaper boy made him stop first, then stroll toward the newsstand of the street corner.

* * *

 

_**Millionaire Dame Found Dead in** _ _**Car in** _ _**Vinewood Hills** _ _-_ _Vinewood Evening Express, 10 November, 1947_

_A dead woman's body was discovered today in the driver's seat of a_ _damaged_ _car_ _on_ _the uninhabited hillside part of Vinewood Hills, up north of Clinton Avenue._ _The scene looked like the result of a car accident; the vehicle directly crashed into a tree by the road, front hood and windshield seriously damaged. The victim was dead for_ _about_ _12 hours when discovered._

_Coroner's Assistant Chief Edward Parker said this afternoon that investigators had_ _positively_ _identified the woman as_ _Mrs. Irene De Santa, born Griffith, living in Rockford Gardens, Vinewood before her death._ _The circumstances of her death are still under investigation, as_ _there was a great deal of blood inside the car caused by a head injury, but LSPD resources didn't confirm if the injury_ _had been_ _caused by_ _accident or physical attack. Both Traffic and Homicide division detectives were spotted on scene today._

_The deceased Mrs. De Santa (35) was a well-known member of Vinewood's most prestigious society of entrepreneurs and charity organizations. Her widowed husband, Michael De Santa is a notable owner of several Vinewood clubs._

_* * *_

The  next day  after  his wife's  death  b oth of Michael's clubs were closed;  although they weren't abandoned entirely, as groups of men were  lurking around the service entrances in the alleyways, some of them wearing “Press” note by the ribbon of their fedora, other of them carrying photo cameras with flash. It was doubtful if Michael was inside any of his clubs but these folks must have known something, since  they seemed  to be  rather insistent.

Trevor was waiting in a  Mercury  S ports this time  behind the  _Club Sapphire_ , Michael's other club on the Del Perro Boulevard, not being entirely sure if it was worthwhile to wait there. He wasn't able to track Michael down  that day, although he had visited all the places  where  he could possibly spot him, from the De Santa mansion to the Vinewood Police Station building. The reporters were his last hope for today.

The evening dusk began to invade the alleys so it was easy to notice the  blinding white  flash of a camera close to the club's back door.  Suddenly,  as if for a calling of an unheard siren alarm, at least ten reporters and photographers were  rushed and  grouped  around a person who looked like a possible De Santa from the distance.

Trevor ignited the engine and the headlights  of the car  turned on.

De Santa looked like  pushing his way  t hrough the tight ring of reporters who,  being  ready to take notes about every words  he said ,  were spilling  quick questions on him.

“Can you tell us when did you see your wife the last time?” - “Where did your wife drive to in the middle of the night, Mr. De Santa?” - “Mickey,  did she have a Last Will? ” - “Mickey, are you a suspect of killing your wife?”

“Fuck off.” was the only gravelly murmured answer they received  from Michael who elbowed himself  through the journalists and  was heading towards his car  when  the Mercury Sports roared up and  screeched to a stop in front of them; a few reporters had to jump aside to avoid being hit.

The door of the passenger seat side opened for Michael, and he heard as the driver barked: “Get in.”

Michael seemed to recognize the voice because he jumped in without hesitation. Trevor slammed on the gas pedal and without caring about the people around the car, sped over the alleyway toward the boulevard. The car door was shut closed by the force of speed as he took a sharp turn.

_* * *_

“So it's you again? ...What do you want?” Michael loosened his necktie and apart from a glare he took curiously on Trevor, he was sitting there next to him as if it was the most natural situation. But Trevor didn't seem to agree on that.

“Would you shut up, slick, will you, because this is me here who asks the questions, alright?” he yelled loud. He flashed a frowned look at Michael then focused back on the roads. “Seriously... I begin to realize you've been playing me from the start. It's been a set-up, right? What is it for? Do you inherit her fucking millions?”

“I dunno, pal. As long as the case isn't closed, I don't inherit shit. But unless the cops manage to put me into the gas chamber for this, I think I'm gonna get the millions, yeah. Fuck.” Michael sighed.

“So that's why you killed her?”

“What?! I didn't. I have no idea who did it. You sound exactly like the fucking cops.” replied Michael with a deeply annoyed tone.

Trevor didn't believe his ears. “No... no, no, no, no, slick, just stop lying to me. You killed her for her money, framing it as an accident, and you killed Schultz before that because maybe he figured out your plan and wanted to warn her - or the cops. Or maaayybe he figured out and blackmailed you, I don't know yet, but I will.”

“Fuck, man, you're an idiot. I have nothing to do with it! You know exactly why I clapped Schultz, you were there! And Irene... she was my wife, for fuck's sake, I would have never done anything to harm her. And why is this your business anyway? What do you want, money? Are you actually blackmailing me right now, or what?!”

Trevor raised a hand from the wheel and as a threatening gesture, he pointed fingers at Michael while driving. “It's my business because you made a fool out of me, Michael, and that's something I can't stand. No one sets me up, you understand?! No one.” and he punched into the air.

Michael relaxed back in the seat and stared at the windshield before replying; maybe he was considering if it was worth the time and energy to convince Trevor. His fingers rubbed and massaged his brows and forehead, and a tired moan escaped his mouth. “You know – Trevor – if your sick theory had been true, I would have already killed you, too, because you are an eyewitness in the Schultz case. A loose end. But as you see, I don't do it.” and he looked up innocently.

“Just try to do it! Just try!” barked Trevor in an eager, challenging tone. He frowned at Michael, and the two men were eyeing each other as much as it was possible while Trevor was driving. Trevor swallowed, and felt that beat again, deep in his stomach. As if something kicked him from his inside. He felt that previously in Michael's company, and the familiar feeling was followed by a loathsome worry creeping on him.

Michael was the first who finally addressed the other one. “You know what.” His tone of voice was a bit warmer, a peace offering. “Let's find a quiet bar somewhere and I buy for us a beer. Just let's figure this out, alright?”

Before Trevor had any chance to respond, a sharp clanking noise was heard, followed immediately by the bang of a gunshot.

Trevor, instinctively, slammed on the brakes. A 4-door solid car that must have been on their tail for a while, now suddenly pulled up alongside them speeding forward, but quickly slowing down as well, screeched by its brakes. They could see for a second that it was full of men, sitting tight inside. One of them instantly leaned out of the window and aimed at them with a handgun.

Trevor accelerated again and steered his car to the left, turning into a sidestreet, cutting the sidewalk corner smashing the fire hydrant and the trash cans on his way. He glanced at Michael who turned around. “Still after us?”

“Yep.” Michael reached for his handgun holstered under his armpit, tossed his hat to the car floor and rolled down the window by his side.

They were driving through a low-dense residential area; between the high-rise-dominated buzzing Central Los Santos and the high-density entertainment-oriented town of Vinewood, the neighborhood of Pillbox Hill and its surroundings were only small villages with lots of vacant lots, construction sites and never-ending row of streets of freshly built small family houses. It was almost full evening, and the traffic was low so it wasn't hard to manoeuvre the car on the road around the other vehicles. Trevor turned the wheel abruptly and cut through backyards and passages to get rid of their chasers, breaking through wooden fences and tossing away dumpsters, but the mobsters' car could keep up the distance.

Very soon gunshots banged again behind them, and new clanks signalled the damage on the rear of the Mercury, hardly avoiding the rear window.

“You know how to piss people off, Michael.” Trevor creaked; Michael jerked his head toward him.

“Me?! I thought they're after you!”

“Certainly not my friends, if you ask me. They must be on our tail since we left your club.”

“Okay, slow down.” Michael said, ignoring the last remark, after checking if his gun is fully loaded. “Let them get in closer.” and he positioned himself into the window, turning backwards, resting his lower arm on the frame. Trevor got the idea and changed lanes, switching to the lane of the opposite direction to offer Michael a better view of the car chasing them.

The dark 4-door sedan gradually approached them, and it was visible how two goons were peeking out of their windows holding their weapons ready to fire again. Michael grasped his gun firmly, exhaled slowly and with an unusually focused hazy look he fired at the wheels of the other car. He missed, and he had to quickly crouch back into his seat to avoid the incoming shots.

And at that moment they overheard the sirens; some concerned citizen of the district must have called the cops by phone. Michael just shrugged. “Okay, once again.”

Trevor switched lanes again with a sharp jerk of the wheel and kept the distance smoothly to help Michael to aim. Michael braced the gun in the crook of his hand and took a careful aim, exhaling with the same focusing way as before; and he fired.

The chaser car instantly spun around uncontrolled with a broken windshield which was visibly blood-spattered; it collided with another car and finally crashed into a solid concrete fence.

“Now we just have to get rid of the cops and we are fine.” Michael quickly reloaded his gun and glanced at Trevor, who nodded, and after a few turns left and right, he rushed into a construction lot. Maybe his intention was to duck the car behind the trailers, but it was dark and he took a turn with such a rate of speed that the car crashed into a pile of bricks behind the trailer; the front hood crumpled and a light smoke came out of the engine. The Mercury was done.

They crawled out and with handguns in hands, took cover behind the pile, sitting down on the ground, leaning their backs against the cover. For a few minutes both of them were silent, they were listening to the sounds of sirens in the distance, and Trevor addressed Michael only when the noise faded to almost being unheard.

“You're quite a shooter, aren't you.”

Michael lowered his weapon then holstered it. He tried to dust off his clothes but it was hopeless; the sharp black three-piece suit was spattered with mug, dust and gravel. He didn't seem to mind it though; on the contrary, he unexpectedly began to snicker, than it turned into a laugh.

“I guess I should say now that you're quite a driver, buddy, but the truth is, that you aren't.”

Trevor smirked. He put away his weapon, too, but still rested his head on the most uncomfortable bricks. The thrill of the chase was still whirling in his veins.

“Hey, Trev, you good? got a few knocks?” asked Michael and intending to check on him, he reached for Trevor's shoulder and touched it. Trevor glanced at him, and after a beat of pause he replied.

“Fine as wine.” and he looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he just leaned forward and slowly approaching Michael's face, he touched Michael's lips with his. It was a hesitant, mellow, and unsure kiss, like he didn't know if it was really the thing he wanted; but Michael became frozen by the surprise and so Trevor had the much needed time to taste those lips without resistance. He tilted his head to get even closer to him and with a more urgent, more rough move he pressed his lips against Michael's, touching his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Michael could even hear Trevor's deep breathing, flowing through his lungs.

And then he stopped and drew back.

Michael, still motionless, was staring at him. “Now what the hell was that?” he asked, with a low and raspy voice.

Trevor wanted to respond, he felt the urge to give a kind of explanation about what he did - and although he felt the juice pumping hard through his brain and it almost made him deaf and blind – he made an attempt to say something though he didn't have a clue, what exactly.

He parted his lips to speak when Michael caught his neck and pulled him into another kiss.

This time they kissed each other like they already knew what they wanted. They forced the other's lips open, they invaded and thrusted in, aggressively, gliding their tongues along, playing with the other's lips, then sucking it in angrily. Trevor soon heard Michael catching his breath, panting loud, and Michael could feel Trevor slightly trembling as he slid his palm from his nape of neck down to his back. For a second, Trevor flashed his eyes wide open and his gaze met with Michael's widened pupils, dilated by some kind of greed which longed for being sated.

He closed his eyes again to melt into the kiss but after a moment he pulled back. Michael panted irregularly and peered into his eyes.

“Hey, listen.” he breathed. “Let's highjack a car and let me find a hotel... Come on. Let's go!”

Trevor slowly shook his head implying a decline, at least, Michael took it as a decline because he touched Trevor's crumpled and dirty shirt on his chest and his hand sneaked under his jacket, stroking over his side. “You don't want to?” he breathed as if being injured and breathing for his life.

Trevor couldn't find an explanation what happened to him at that moment. He had an instinct in danger that saved his life several times in the last years, an instinct that told him to cover quickly right before the bullet flew toward him. Maybe that sight of those greedy dilated pupils was the cause that cooled him down. He retired, staggered to his feet and raised an arm toward Michael with an open palm.

“You just stay away from me.” he said. “Just. Stay. Away.” and he spread his fingers as a warning.

Michael was so startled that he was unable to say a single word. He was sitting on the ground leaning back against a pile a bricks, right next to a wrecked car, in dusty clothes, aroused with flushed cheeks, behind a construction trailer, and was watching as Trevor Philips walked away into the night, leaving him behind.


	4. Keep Cool, Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Keep Cool, Fool" is a popular song of the '40s composed by Josef Myrow, recorded by performers like The Ink Spots or Ella Fitzgerald.

_Even in this world of rot and scum,_ _one can't get rid of this rigorous administration of justice, this fucking urge that tickles my mind all the time when I see these scumbags, liars,_ _and_ _arrogant turds, and hypocrites and... well. You name it._ _So, although I love making dough_ _just_ _as much as the next guy,_ _it seems_ _even more_ _satisfying_ _when_ _some men get what they deserve._

 _I_ _abhorred_ _Vinewood the first day I booked into that shithole of a hotel._ _It's full of broads that are ready to spread their legs for the tiniest chance to get on to the movie screen, and full of dudes that are even more foolish than that._ _After a month I've really had enough with the folks of tinsel town, but I don't want to_ _take my_ _leave without knowing if I was made a fool in a setup. Or to rephrase it, without_ _figuring out_ _who the fuck killed Irene_ _D_ _e Santa and why._

 _And apart from my burning desire for justice I have one more reason to go after that, and that's the fucking_ _LSPD_ _._ _Just when I th_ _ought this situation_ _couldn't get any more messed up, they took me in for being questioned because someone had seen me to call on De Santa in his club before the murder. Great. Just as I_ _fore_ _told him. Now I'm believed to be his hired hitman. Somehow I must find a way to_ _repay_ _that rich fucker_ _for this._

 _Which I would do right now if I... didn't fuck up with that damned kiss. Shit, normally I don't do that. As a rule._ _Giving_ _five_ _bucks to a wretch in an alleyway to suck me off, sometimes, on occasions, when I'm out of a bar and drunk as hell, to call it a night, is one thing. But fuck, kissing a man like that... is another, and okay, I got a little out of control. Maybe I'm a little overwhelmed by th_ _is_ _place_ _nonetheless_ _. And that car chase. And the shooting._ _Maybe it's just high time_ _I picked up a_ _floozy_ _in a liquor joint, that's all._

 _But t_ _his thing, like a hook_ _under_ _one's skin, like being a fish_ _swimming around but already caught pole and line, and th_ _at_ _fucked_ _vexed feeling by the hook constantly reminds one to be_ _captured_ _. Feeling it when having the breakfast coffee in a diner reading the newspapers; feeling it wh_ _ile_ _flirting with the drug store cashier girl after making_ _the_ _phone calls; wh_ _ile_ _bargaining for_ _the usual pack of Benzedrine in a secret back office of a gas station. Even Benzedrine can't help; I admit “bennie”_ _just_ _make_ _s_ _it worse. Even jerking off doesn't help._ _Fucking_ _hook_ _under_ _the skin._

_* * *_

The Vinewood Police Station on the corner of Devour and Wilcox wasn't unfamiliar to Michael; he already spent there several hours the previous day enjoying the hospitality of the detectives of the Traffic department. Now he was sitting there again in the interview room, this time summoned by the Homicide detectives who were just as a pleasant company as the Traffic dicks the other day.

The interview room had only two chairs and a table as furniture and of course, the one-way observation mirror, softly reflecting Michael's profile on the inside, and showing him through a window glass from the outside; separating him from the buzz of the police hallway. He was left waiting there for more than an hour alone, but he expected that; it was part of the protocol. He was dying for a cigarette.

When finally the two dicks arrived, he received them with a loosened necktie and an unfriendly facial expression.

“Mr. De Santa, this is Detective Norton, and I'm Detective Combs.” nodded the first man entering the room, tall and smug in a cheap suit, followed by his partner, shorter and sturdy, pistol holsters around his shoulders, leaning against the side wall immediately and beginning to scan Michael up and down with a bitter grin. Combs took the seat in front of Michael and didn't waste his time at all.

“Tell us why you killed your wife, Mr. De Santa. Your situation will go better if you come clean about it as quick as possible.” and he stared at Michael with cold anticipation, opening a small notebook ready to make the necessary notes.

It took a minute for Michael to regain his ability to speak. “So she was murdered...” He didn't look like being surprised, but nonetheless, he seemed to become moved. He let his fist rest on the table. “I wasn't sure about that until this minute.”

“Yes, the only part we can share is that the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head which, according to the forensic autopsy report, couldn't be caused by the car accident, but a smaller heavy object – but hopefully you can enlighten us about the details, can't you, Mr. De Santa?”

Michael adjusted his position in his chair, unsettled. “I have no idea who did it. Of course it wasn't me, I loved my wife.”

“Or rather her money, right?” Combs moved right along with a provoking tone. “We are all aware of your financial situations, Mr. De Santa. Did she write a last will and testament?”

“I don't fucking know and I'm not fucking interested. Ask her attorney, knucklehead.” Michael's fist clenched. “I told your colleagues the other day where I was that night she died. I have an alibi, flatfoot. Can you add that up with your notes?!”

Combs glared at him. “If I were you, Mr. De Santa, I wouldn't raise my tone like that. Things look pretty bad for you. I don't give a damn about your alibi, you know that? I think you didn't have the guts to do it yourself so you had someone else do it. Do you know a man named Trevor Philips?”

Michael shrugged and a contemplating expression rolled over his face. “Don't think I ever met him.” And he looked innocently at Combs.

“Well give yourself a couple of seconds.” replied Combs with a hint of triumph in his voice. “We have a witness who had seen him in your office of the Club 21, about a week before your wife was murdered. Why did you meet him?”

“Oh, that one... Yeah, he was looking for work, but I said no. I didn't like him at all – that crook looked like trouble. I never saw him since.”

Combs and Norton didn't show any signs of believing Michael or not. Combs changed the subject, studying his notes.

“When did you last see your wife alive?”

Michael made an impatient gesture. “I already told that yesterday. I said her goodbye at home before I went to that screening party at the Egyptian Theater around 9 PM. She didn't wanna come with me because she had another invitation for that night.”

“So where did she go that night? You don't wanna tell me, De Santa, that you had no clue where your wife spent her nights? You and your wife weren't getting along very well, were you? Did she have affairs with other men?”

Michael pressed his lips together and when he responded, his voice was lower than before. “Talk about my wife like that again and I punch your nose into your fucking brain, dude. She's dead, alright? so show some respect. No, I didn't know and I didn't ask. She had many acquaintances in Vinewood and LS. I can give you a mile long fucking list of contacts whom she was in touch with. I just left home and came home around 3 AM. Dozens of people can testify that I spent the whole night in the Egyptian Theater. It was a long night, alright? I fell asleep and I didn't know that she hadn't come home until the next morning... but by that time... she was already found.” For a moment, Michael stared at the surface of the table in front of him. “Okay, so, if I asked her that evening whom she was going to meet now I would know who killed her?”

Combs shook his head. “It's a nice story, De Santa, but the only person stating that she had an appointment for that night is you. We have no other evidence for that. Maybe she didn't meet anyone else. Maybe the only person she met was you – or the person you hired to get her out of the way.”

Michael's gaze turned dark; depressed and intimidating at the same time. “Bullshit. She was my Irene. I couldn't do any harm to her.” Suddenly he rose to his feet and raised a hand toward Combs with an accusing gesture. “Don't try to set a murder up on me, you scum, because it ain't gonna happen. I have nothing to do with this, and you know that!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Norton launched forward, standing against Michael, forcing him to sit back. “You can stand up when we say you can, buddy.”

Michael jerked his head with a shoulder shrug, and sat down, still steaming. Combs leaned forward as well, and pointed his pencil at him. “Listen, we can't waste any more time on this. You must give us something, De Santa, or I'm going to have you charged. You should think very hard about whether you have anything else to share with us because someone did break her skull and let her bleed to death and we have no one else to charge but you.”

“Okay... okay!” Michael exhaled. He leaned back and kept his eyes on Combs. “I ain't much to tell other than I already told your pals. She was dressed like she was gonna go out... she was putting her lipstick on when I said goodbye. I left the house first and I drove all the way to the Vinewood Boulevard to that damned Egyptian Theater where the Richards Majestic held a pre-premiere party for their new movie, the _Jamaica_.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“Between 9 and 9.30 I guess. I was greeted by a few friends... dudes that I know... even by David Richards himself, listen, I spent all my fucking night there... It was a huge show, chorus girls dancing on stage, waiters dressed in swashbuckler costumes from the movie, parts of the movie were being screened all night. Most of the time I was with the group around Richards. Hey, can I smoke?”

“No. And you never left the building during the party, not once?”

“Actually, yeah, I wanted to... for the first time, around midnight, but I was stopped by Mr. Richards who offered me... some refreshments in the back office, so I stayed.”

“You mean drugs.”

“Call it whatever you want, dickhead. How the hell you think people can stay awake and dance till dawn?”

“And the next time?”

This time Michael seemed pondering longer. “I can't remember clearly, things started to become blurry after that, but I remember those girls... well, yeah, actually they were either twins or I was too drunk by then, so I was heading out toward the exit and I was stopped again... and they told me they were actresses in Richards' studio and well, they were enthusiastic, so, you know how it is...”

“Yeah, I know how it is.”

Michael rubbed his bridge of nose. “So I finished around 3 AM and when I was sober enough to drive, I went home. I didn't check if Irene was at home in her room or not – I supposed she was. I fell asleep.”

Combs parted his lips to put a new question when a loud knock was heard on the door and a man peeked into the interview room. “Detectives... for a minute.”

Combs and Norton exchanged glances then left the room, leaving Michael alone with his thoughts.

And those thoughts were really gathering around him and began to whisper and giggle into his ear, like some chorus girls at the party, ruffling his nerves, making his hair on his nape of neck bristled. Something was not right with that night, and Michael confessed to himself that he had found David Richards too friendly, too cordial toward him considering that they had been introduced not so long before that, and he was a well-known producer of a big studio and Michael was only an owner of two small clubs. Richards paid attention to Michael all through the night; he kept Michael around him, always checking if he was having fun. Michael remembered how proud he was when enjoyed this attention but now he began to find it odd.

But this wasn't the only thing he found odd when recalled the screening party. There was something else, too – he just couldn't figure out what exactly. For some reason, some memories began to flash back into his mind about an evening when he had first met David Richards, in the Gentry Manor Hotel, weeks before the Egyptian Theater party.

The door opened again and a slightly disappointed and bitter Combs emerged. With a dismissive gesture he nodded to Michael.

“We are finished, you are free to go, Mr. De Santa.” It was clear, according to his features, that he was just as glad to let Michael go as letting one of his teeth pulled. He glanced away, avoiding to look into Michael's eyes.

“What?” and although Michael had no clue what kind of miracle happened that he could leave without being charged, he realized quickly that it was wiser to get the fuck out quickly before they changed their mind. And so he did.

_* * *_

_~ ~ ~_

… Fred Quincy looked quite drunk already considering that the party had started only half an hour ago. For a second he leaned against a column in the hall to regain his balance and took a hazy glance at Michael. He was a few years younger than Michael, but a similarly bulky figure, with a cocky jawline, dressed black tie wearing a white dinner jacket; the jacket looked grey dusty, as if Quincy had spent some time lying or rolling on the floor while wearing it.

“And after that... she said: You can break up with me, Johnny - but in the end - it's ME who will break off!” he finished a story then chuckled. “Anyways – what an actress! she's somewhere around here, too. At least she's been invited. Oh and David! I wanna introduce you to David before he leaves. He detests parties like this, he just drops by to see his studio stars and pat their shoulders. I have already told him a few things about you.”

“Yeah, really?” asked Michael as he was following Quincy through the labyrinth of the Gentry Manor Hotel. A private party was going on in the lounge bar and the salons around, invited only. Most of the guests were drinking and dancing in the bar, although one could find more of them lounging around here and there, reclining drunk or high by their magic pills. It was Michael's first time to qualify as a guest at a revel like this, and he made efforts not staring at the celebrities whose faces he recognized among the other guests. “Favorably, I hope.”

“Oh, Michael, you dumb bastard. You know how much I'm fond of you!” Quincy stopped by a half-opened door that led to a side salon and shoved it open, then yelled into the room with a most ruthless and harsh tone one can imagine. “David Richards! Hands up and surrender peacefully, or I have to use deadly force!”

The room where they entered became silent instantly. The eyes of about four or five party guests, all dressed formal, were pierced on them, stopping their chat. They were gathering around a tall man in tuxedo, about the same age as Michael, with a pencil-thin mustache and dark hair greased back, holding a glass of champagne in his hand. He pouted his lips when Quincy burst into a frantic laugh over his own joke, and obviously he didn't find it funny.

“Freddy, you animal.” he said in a low warning tone. Then suddenly his facial expression changed, and raising a hand dramatically, he pointed a finger at him. He raised his tone, too. “If any of you try to stop me, numbnuts, I burst all this cursed city into flames.”

“ _Angels in Hell_.” Michael broke the minute of silence after the one-liner performance. He nodded then smiled. “I always loved that scene.”

David Richards' eyes wandered over Michael's face.

“David, let me introduce you Michael De Santa. Michael is a great admirer of your pictures. Michael, this is David Richards.” and Fred Quincy, looking like sobering up a bit, gave Richard's shoulder a nudge as he approached them and offered Michael a handshake. “I told you about Michael, right? The guy owning the _Club_ _21_ on Vinewood Boulevard...? Husband of Irene Griffith...?”

Richards's gaze was flicking over Michael's features with interest, but not with trust; he took a sip of his champagne and with a challenging tone he prompted Michael: “...There's no such thing as fair in a fight to the death!...” and raising his dark eyebrows he looked at Michael with anticipation.

Michael blinked and spread his hands slowly. “Weird, I don't remember this one. I thought I knew all the Richards Majestic movies by heart.”

Richards curled his thin lips into a shady kind of grin. Quincy, like a shadow of his, reflected the same grin on his own face, as well. “Hah, my fault, I cheated. It's in the _Jamaica_ , under post-production. You couldn't have seen it yet. A swashbuckler historical adventure, turned out quite swell, am I right, Fred? I hope you can join us at the pre-premiere screening, Michael. We will throw it at the Egyptian Theater.” The anticipation didn't disappear from his features, as he was staring at Michael. “What's wrong?”

Michael looked at him like having a sudden revelation. He pointed at Richards. “There's no such thing as fair in love, sweetheart... _The Lady of Shady Lane_ , with June Ballard. It was a Richards movie, too!”

Richards laughed, with an honest and pleased laugh. “You're really crazy for movies, Michael, aren't you. Come, let's find some real bourbon in this place of a hellhole.”

_~ ~ ~_

… Some people dragged a piano into the middle of the bar and the party guests took over the stool of the pianist by the instrument; a guy started to play songs beating the piano keys with such a temper that it was a miracle they didn't break and scatter all over the floor. Other guests surrounded him and the instrument, leaning on it, or dancing around it, and all of them were singing the wildest boogie-woogie melodies together in a delirious tipsiness.

Michael remembered clearly the vulgar drunken howling of the “ _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B_ ” and the loud foot taps around the piano, it could be heard well from the spot they were sitting with Quincy and Richards. Any time he heard that song later in his life, he recalled that evening when David Richards had shared a drink with him, flashed his celebrity producer smile for him, and told him about his latest production prepared.

“...We already bought the script, but this whole production is cursed for some reason. Generally I prefer historical adventures, but lately this criminal, and detective, and guilty-or-not-guilty, and that suspense thing is all the rage, so we have to do it, but for one, we don't know the ending yet – I have three script writers working on the ending for weeks and they can't figure out a fine one, the useless scums... And for two, everybody want to shoot it on location because the whole story culminates at the Union Station, and hell, everybody knows the fucking Union Station building, right? So it has to be on location – which costs a fortune, goes without saying.” Richards took a sip of his cigar. “And I'm in need of an associate producer for this, and that associate producer means about... eight or nine hundred thousands. Things like that.”

Michael, who was sitting there flushed by the sensation of being talked to by one of the biggest heads of movie studio, caught Richards' gaze and it looked serious, certainly more serious than the environment and the roaring party in the bar next door.

“So Freddy told me you are seriously considering about getting into the business. And if Freddy likes you, I'm sure I would as well, Michael, so, just a word from you, and our lawyers can meet in my offices and lay out a... mutually satisfying agreement.” And he tapped the loose ash of his cigar into an ashtray.

Michael was stunned. “I... I'd love to, Mr. Richards.” He leaned a bit forward. “That could be the best thing I ever did in my life. But... I have to convince my wife first, and it looks almost hopeless.” He blushed slightly. “Most of our budget comes from her inheritance, you know. And Irene, well, she...”

Both Richards and Quincy were waiting for him to finish the sentence.

“She thinks my plans to invest in movies are just childish dreams and it's hard to persuade her about the opposite. I can't invest almost a million without her signature on the check.”

Richards nodded with a gesture signalling all was clear to him. “I'm very sorry to hear that, but I'm sure you can deal with it, Michael, if you are that capable guy that Freddy told me about.”

Quincy flashed that drunken, shady, almost cruel grin that Michael already knew, and grabbed Richards' shoulder, squeezing it. “Hey, David, bro – we can handle it. Whatever fucking problem it is, we have seen worse, if you get my drift, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Fred, will you. You're drunk.” replied Richards, but he didn't shake Quincy's hand off his shoulder. It stayed there rested for a further long moment.

_~ ~ ~_

_* * *_

The telephone in the De Santa house was to be found on a console table in the foyer ; when Michael dialled the number, it was close to midnight; the house never seemed more quiet and haunted for Michael since Irene's death.

“Hello. Is that you, Smokey?”

“Who's asking?”

“It's Michael De Santa, man, look, I'm in the middle of the most fucked up jam. Do you remember that Philips guy you recommended me for a job? Do you have his number?”

“I do. I avoid meeting him though. That crazy fucker. What do you want?”

“Would you do me a favor and arrange an appointment with him for me? Just don't mention my name. Tell him I'm someone who offers a job and wants to talk, but no names. Find a small bar in downtown LS, not in Vinewood, will you?”

“Michael, does it have anything to do with Irene's case?”

“Shit, it has to do with a whole lot of things. I don't think it helps if you know the details.”

“You might be right. Are you not charged yet?”

Michael exhaled. “No, not yet. Listen, I'm working on to come clean, alright? Just fetch that fucking fellow for me.”


	5. In the Still of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In the Still of the Night" is a song by Cole Porter from 1937 composed for the MGM Studios.

Trevor Philips didn't remember how he ended in the middle of the Legion Square. He was suddenly just staring at his own blurry reflection in the water of the central fountain, leaning on the edge of carved stone. By the sound of the sprinkling water, for a moment, he could see his own features, though it was so distorted, pale and creepy by the lights of the park lamps that he wasn't sure he was watching himself. Then his shoulders jerked and he threw up to the fountain.

The park was almost deserted at this hour of the evening so his action didn't appall the concerned citizens of the Central district; only few couples of lovers were roaming around behind the lush vegetation. The palm forest of the Legion Square embraced and hid them from view.

It also embraced and hid Trevor who rested his forehead against a lamp post for a minute. “A pigeon fancier I am not.” he murmured. But after the throwing up, he felt himself better. It came to his mind that Smokey Giles was waiting for him at a bar somewhere around the Union Station, and the thought seemed to be too appealing because it meant drinks. A lot of drinks.

He looked around searching for parking cars. He wasn't certain he could drive without crashes in his condition, but he was certain he would have a jacked car under his ass in a minute.

_* * *_

Somewhere between the warehouses and railways of the industrial district and the cheap 'hood of the Union Station, the _Cavanagh's_ bar was located on a street corner open for those mechanics, taxi drivers, typists and laundry-bored wives who popped in for a drink after their shifts. Trevor found it easily; he met Smokey here a few times before already. He touched his inside pocket to check his pack of cigarette when he stopped in front of the entrance.

A staggering dude by the wall greeted him with a drunken cheer. “Hey! I know you!”

“No, you fucking don't.” replied Trevor without even glancing at him and entered the bar.

Showing no interest in the bar stools or booths, he was approaching straight the back room – he knew which table was Smokey's. But he paused nonetheless when he noticed him, sitting by his usual table, accompanied by Michael De Santa who was smoking and mumbling to Smokey comfortably, obviously also waiting for Trevor to arrive.

“Oh, no, not that rich fuck again...” he rolled his eyes and although there was no surprise on earth that Trevor Philips wasn't prepared for, or didn't enjoy in a way or another, Michael's presence unexpectedly proved to be more awkward than he would have admitted. As he stood by their table, he felt a cold touch of a frozen hand in his guts.

_* * *_

“Jesus, Trevor, what have you taken this time? You look lousy as fuck.” Smokey Giles' scandalized gaze behind his glasses rested on Trevor's pale face first, then wandered over his stained shirt, noticing also the missing buttons from his suit jacket. He rubbed his nose as he tried to regain his nonchalance.

“Smokey, old sport, you know what? you wouldn't recognize fun if it sat on your face, buddy. You seriously should try to get out of your funk, alright?, like, smoking some shit, or I dunno, eat raw meat and taste blood if that helps. It might give you ideas, pal.” Philips flopped into a chair and tossed his pack of cigarette onto the table. He didn't look at Michael yet but he knew as hell that fucker was studying his features as well. He didn't mind at all that he looked shitty after those different pills combined. To hell with it. “Gentlemen? let me introduce you my new little girlfriend called “amy”... is it Amy? Or Jamie? Never mind. And my good old friend “bennie”... yes, he's Bennie. So! Amy and Bennie don't get along very well together - I have to admit - and although I had some plans to fuck both of them at the same time, but you know, in the end, they fucked me instead, and it was ugly – it hurt at first, but by now, I'm fine. I'm fucking fine and high, so what?” He grinned fiendishly. “You want some? Amy or Bennie? I have no clue about your preferences, Smokey.” and he tapped his jacket on his chest over his pocket.

“Hell, no.” Smokey replied with honest disgust. “I still need my brain ultimately. How you want to undertake jobs in a shape like this?”

Trevor took a side-glance at the third man at the table and responded to Smokey. “I can't see anyone here to make myself sober up for.” and pulled a cigarette out of his pack.

“I thought you had already met each other, guys.” blinked Smokey at Michael.

“Yeah, we did.” answered Michael with a tone that hinted sarcasm, as if perhaps they shouldn't have. Trevor sensed the undertone but it just made him feel even more cocky.

“Yeah, we did... and it was the most fucked up and ridiculous job I ever did in this town of douchebags, so I can only assume that Mr. Millionaire here want to have some fun again and pay me for a comeback tour into his fucking showbiz life.”

Apart from a little muscle twitching in his side of cheek and a flush on his forehead, Michael didn't react. Smokey glanced at him expecting some response, then he began to put a question for him to ease the tension. “Are you sure that you...”

“Yeah, quite all right.” Michael rested his palm on Smokey's arm for a second with a chilling gesture. “Thank you for the help, Smokey. I take over.” And while Trevor gasped overhearing this phrase, and was struggling to regain his wits, Smokey nodded a polite goodbye to them, taking his hat into his hand. “Anytime, Michael. Have fun, guys.” and he left through the side alleyway door.

“The fuck you take over, you smug piece of...?!” creaked Trevor in the moment he could speak again, but Michael interrupted by placing a hand on Trevor's cigarette pack: “May I have one?”

It silenced Trevor for a minute. He pulled out a matchbook from his pocket and tossed it next to the pack. “Yeahmm, of course. So... what the fuck is this? For one, Smokey didn't say a fucking word about you waiting for me here. And for two, I told you to st... stay away. You, slick, are trouble, even by my standards. It's a miracle that we aren't gunned down yet by this table with our brains all over the place after sitting here with you for five fucking minutes.”

Michael loosened his tie before he replied. “Smokey didn't tell you because I could bet you wouldn't show up if you knew, so I asked him to keep his mouth. Because for some fucking reason that I don't know, you seem to hate me like shit, not that I give a fuck if you do, but I can see you seem so, and I wanted to talk over this shit that we both are stuck in.” He lit a cigarette and avoided to meet Trevor's eyes. This was the first occasion they met since that kiss, and they both let an awkward moment of silence separate them.

“Seriously, man, the cops want to pin the murder of Irene on me” - Michael's eyes wandered around the room, glancing at the other patrons of the evening, then his look rested on Trevor for a moment - “but I think I have an idea who did it, but I need your help to be sure and prove it. I can't figure out all alone.”

“Really? And why should I give a fuck?”

“Why? Because you've been interrogated Downtown, you prick, just like me, that's why. You're involved in my case, buddy, and if we don't find that douche who did it, we can go to jail or worse. Didn't they ask you why you had called on me in my club?”

“Yeah, they fucking did...” Trevor responded with a sour face and an admitting tone. He looked like he began to get out of his high a bit. “I told them we had discussed a job but I refused 'cause I hated your ass at first sight.” and returned the other man's gaze with a challenging flash in his dark eyes.

Michael took a long drag of his cigarette and doing this, he couldn't conceal his smile dawning. After exhaling the smoke, he shook his head slightly, as if being in utter disbelief. “You recognize destiny when it's already too late.” he mumbled, addressing it rather to himself than to Trevor. And still smiled.

“What's that?” Trevor was caught off guard, Michael's smile making him confused for a moment. “A fucking quote or what?”

“Nothing.” he said with a quick wave of hand. “It's just... I told them the same.” and he looked up at Trevor. “I told the cops the same.” He almost let his eyes peer deep at Trevor's, but he managed to cut it quickly with a jerk of head, and the smile still lingering on his face, he stood up. “I'm gonna fetch some booze for us – what do you drink?”

_* * *_

When Michael returned from the bartender with a glass of scotch in both hands, he noticed Trevor pacing instead of sitting, and couldn't help noticing as well, that the guests of the establishment were leaving the back room in a hurry, leaving behind their unfinished drinks on the tables. Trevor looked quite satisfied with that and after he flopped back into his chair, he stretched his arms upwards with a comfortable moan.

“The hell you told them to make them flee?” muttered Michael, handing his drink over to him.

Trevor tasted his scotch and crumpled his face with disgust. “They're watering it down, the bastards. - Just using my manners, buddy, I asked them politely for some more privacy. So, can you bring yourself to tell me finally who did it, or you're too chilled out and drown yourself into this shit of a booze instead?”

“Come on, man, would you give me a break, will you?” Michael took a sip and when he put down his glass to collect his thoughts, he got a glimpse of Trevor's hands on the table, scarred and tattoed, with black dirt under his nails. He still avoided to look directly into his eyes but every time when their quick glances met, he could observe his dark-brown hostile and stubborn gaze turn into something smoldering and distrustful, but relenting. He had a wounded look under those angry eyebrows. When Michael realized that, it didn't make it easier to look at Trevor, either.

“Okay, so there's this guy, a clown actually, a fucking crazy dude, his name's Quincy, I thought he was okay, but... he makes movies, you know? and he introduced me to David Richards, the movie producer and we were _this_ close to make a deal of making a movie together, okay? But they expected me to invest a share, and I told them that Irene hated the idea of giving me papers for movies, so... now that I recall what we had talked about, I think, that... I think that it's possible that this guy... might have killed Irene to make me inherit her dough and invest that into Richards' movie.”

And Michael finally stared directly into Trevor's eyes. The other man blinked.

“You're kidding me, right? You are saying, that someone croaked her just to shift her millions to you, hoping that you're gonna shift it into a fucking MOVIE?”

“I... I know it sounds crazy, but these people all are. You don't know these guys, shit, half the folks of this town'd sell their own mother for a great script, or for a starring role in a movie, and most of the other half already did! They expected about eight or nine hundred grand from me, man, we are talking about almost a fucking million, Christ, Trevor, you think it's not something one can kill for?” Michael was panting, taking a quick glance around if they were still alone.

Those piercing eyes of Trevor were glued to Michael's face, apparently being unsure to believe him or not. “You know, slick, you are just as a fucking nutjob for this movie shit as the other dickheads are, if not even more. What makes you think I believe your story, or better yet, to think that I give a shit about you in trouble?”

“Listen, I don't mean it for free. I pay your usual rate and the extra for the evidence.” and Michael flashed his most correct and business-like expression, raising his eyebrow a bit. To his surprise though, it wasn't responded well.

“No, it's YOU listen to me, you smug son of a bitch.” Trevor's voice twitched by the burst of anger. “Let me put it simple that even a Mr. Millionaire fucker like you might understand. I don't work for you anymore, alright? You are not my boss to pat me on my shoulder, and I'm not your fucking goon, or your eager beaver, you hear me? If – and it's a big fucking if – I'm gonna do anything with this, then we are doing this together, as partners, is that clear enough for you?” and narrowing his eyes, he scanned him all over intently; and although for Michael he sounded being truly offended, he couldn't help noticing that Trevor's eyes rested on his lips for a moment before his look flipped back to Michael's eyes.

Michael took a gulp of air. “Okay. As partners. Whatever you want.” and he emptied his glass thirstily.

“So what did this Quincy dude do that makes you think it was him?”

“That night when Irene was murdered... I attended a screening party, a pre-premiere of a Richards movie. This is so important, it's my fucking alibi for that night. And you know what, I figured out later that Quincy was greeting me at the beginning and then I never saw him again that night. And you know what else, every time I wanted to leave the party and go home, David Richards prevented me to do that in one way or other. Which gives me the crazy idea that...”

“...that he knew what was going on...”

“...yes, and he wanted to provide a very good alibi for me that night because he wanted me to stay clean, after all, they killed her for making me their business partner! And it was important for them I wouldn't be arrested. But hey, maybe I'm just a fucking lunatic who is imagining a whole lot of things because I've seen too many film noirs... and Richards was only a good host, and Quincy was just screwing with a girl somewhere in a hotel nearby.” And Michael took a tired glance at Trevor with the anticipation that he would be turned down and be called a fool.

But it didn't happen. Trevor was playing with the glass by his hand, tossing it left and right on the table but he didn't drink. “So you want me to sniff around this Quincy, huh? You got a plan?”

“I'm thinking about having lunch or dinner with him this week, and... it might give you a chance to look around in his rent when he's surely not at home. He lives in a bungalow inside the Spanish patio of the Gentry Manor Hotel.”

“And what do you expect me to find there? A fucking steel wrench covered with blood and brain pieces and a label on it: I killed Irene De Santa with this?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I dunno, man, anything, notes, letters, calendar, any connections between him and Richards... or him and Irene? Anything.”

Trevor seemed like considering it for a moment. By now he looked almost completely sobered up. He rubbed his face strongly then scratched his stubble. “Alright, I'm in. Give me a call when your lunch date is fixed.” Suddenly he decided to finish his drink and he emptied the glass in one gulp, shuddering after that. “Good Lord, they should pay me for drinking this.”

There was relief and a hint of triumph in Michael's smile as he observed Trevor's stubborn sharp line of shoulders after he agreed. He softly nudged Trevor's arm with a clenched fist. “Hey, man - thanks.” he said with a tone that was too trustful and undeniably warm to be ignored by Trevor, so he glanced at him and this time they let their eyes lock on each other.

“You know...” Michael addressed Trevor slowly, after a long silence. “You know, I need your number to contact you tomorrow.”

In a rare moment of his being unable to say a word, Trevor reached for the matchbook lying on the table and pinned it down with his fingertip, then moved it sliding closer to Michael. It was a stop-light red matchbook, on its cover advertising a Hotel El Mar, with a logo and a Vinewood address. The four-digit telephone number of the hotel was also printed on it.

Michael wanted to take it in order to put it into his pocket when Trevor stopped him. “Wait.” he said with a heavy breath. Fumbling in the inside pockets of his jacket, he found a small notebook and a pencil. When he dragged the matchbook, opened its cover and wrote something on the inside, Michael believed to see his tongue tip nervously trailing along his lips.

“Here.” Trevor breathed with an impatient tone and tossed the matchbook back to Michael. Then without saying any goodbye, he grabbed his fedora, pushed it into his head and strolled out of the bar.

Michael held the matchbook opened in his hand, staring at the handwritten letters above the matchsticks: “ROOM 6”. He rubbed over his forehead and brows, and he was sitting by his table alone for a while to cool down before he was able to get up and leave for home.

_* * *_

The next day passed by quietly for a flophouse in the middle of Vinewood. No message was left for the key box of the Room 6 and no phone call put through, although the guest of the room spent almost all of the day inside four walls, leaving only for a few hours at lunchtime.

Eventually, a hesitant knocking was heard on the door around 8 o'clock and when Trevor answered the door, Michael was standing on his doorstep, tense and uneasy, wearing a suit without a necktie or vest, crumpling his hat in hand with fumbling fingers.

“Hey.” Trevor greeted him evenly. He wore an undoubtedly soiled tank top, and trousers with suspenders over his shoulders; he held a bottle of beer in hand, and while his stare flicked to Michael's face, he took a shot from the bottle. Whether he was expecting him or not, he didn't show; he opened the door wide to let him in and stepped back.

Trevor's room was surprisingly big, almost a tiny apartment, with a booth-size bathroom and a half-separated built-in kitchen corner, desperately messy after living here for a few weeks; with a dining table in the middle of all, covered by the dirty plates and trash clutter of the past weeks. The room was illuminated partly by a floor lamp by the double bed and partly by the bluish light of the vertical “EL MAR” hotel sign attached to the outside wall; a part of the letter “A” could be seen through the venetian blinds.

Michael casted his look around the place, not missing the details of the mess and all the smell accompanied by, but somehow it didn't seem to bother him. He dropped his hat on a chair, then he watched Trevor's chest slowly rise and fall, and his adam's apple as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a gulp of beer.

“Now look who's here. I wouldn't guess you have the guts to come along.” Trevor tried to sound as indifferent as he could, but his hoarse voice left a tense vibe lingering in the air. He put down the bottle on the table and approached Michael with curious eyes, and in spite of his taunting tone, those eyes were showing uncertainty as well. He looked still uncertain when he grabbed Michael's neck and pressed his lips on his.

But Michael didn't hesitate kissing him back in a beat, grabbing his partner's belt firmly with both hands, tugging Trevor closer to him, quickly and eagerly nibbling on the other man's lips, then breaking the kiss just as quickly he breathed into his face: “...I guess I got the message right then that I shouldn't s _tay_ _a_ _way_ anymore?”

Trevor made an infuriated groan and slammed Michael against the wall, making him chuckle. “Fuck you! you smug prick, we'll see how...” and their mouths clashed again, and they leant into a more violent kiss, broken by Trevor this time, “...how loud and big-mouth you can be if I...” and he gasped as he felt Michael's hand trailing slowly over his spine, stopping on the small of his back, “...if I fuck you into the wall, here and now...” and Trevor's harsh tone of voice melted as Michael's fingers on his back slipped under his pants, touching his skin.

“Yeah, I can tell...” sighed Michael, kissing into his ear then down on the side of his neck while his fingertips were trying to crawl deeper under Trevor's waist of pants. He could sense he was on the right way to make Trevor speechless as he sucked in his skin, they were leaning against each other, Michael pinned to the wall by the weight of Trevor's body who started to melt into him, pressing himself against Michael chest, revelling in his kisses, when suddenly his lustfully coasting hand over Michael's body crept up on his bulge.

Michael hissed and stopped kissing immediately.

“Oh yeah, now I got you, huh?” Trevor grumbled low, and with a rough move, he pushed back Michael against the wall again even more to make him stand a bit wider spread. He cupped Michael's crotch and held it firm. “I've been longing to do this since that car chase. Or maybe longer? Fuck knows, frankly.” He let his exploring fingers slide over Michael's erection, covered by his wool suit pants, so Trevor had to grip him tight to feel all his length.

“Oh shit...” Michael's head fell back against the wall, shutting his eyes in a delirious rush of heat. Trevor's thumb snaked under his crotch, brushing firmly the spot where his balls had to be, then his heel of palm slid back on his bulge and pressed hard against it before he started to graze his length with a teasing and determined pace. “Shit shit shit....” Michael cursed with a gradually fading voice as his legs gave up weakened by the sensation, and he had to cling to Trevor's shoulder to keep himself standing.

With a satisfied hum Trevor bit on his ear and watched his eyes trying to catch his gaze but in vain; Michael's heavy eyes were staring into a blissful distance while breathing loud and irregular. As Trevor's pace on his dick started to speed up and became more eager, Michael's hand slid down on Trevor's, covering it, picking up its pace, moaning every time when Trevor's fingers squeezed and twisted just the right spots to drive him crazy. Trevor kissed a smile into his ear, sending a hungry hot breath down on his spine.

“Fuck, Trevor... I want to... I want to...” It was barely audible as Michael groaned his words. Trevor licked his own lips. “What do you want, huh, tough guy?” he grumbled into his neck. His fingers squeezed the head of his bulge. “What do you want? 'Cause I can tell what I want. I wanna make you come, a hundred times. I wanna watch you get off, fucking anywhere, a thousand times.” His pace didn't slow, and as he was jerking him off, waves of rapturous pleasure rolled over his face as if he felt the same friction himself as Michael. “... And I want to feel you this hard against my back of throat so fucking badly...”

His last words did it; Michael let out a growl of frustrated half-shout and Trevor could feel that bulge twitching in his grip, even through the layers of fabric. He leant into a messy kiss while his fingertips were still digging into the dampness of the other man's pants.

Then Trevor stepped back and let Michael slowly collapse by the wall.

Michael slumped down to sit on the floor with a blank gaze, then with an expression of being spent and destroyed at the same time. His limbs were still slightly shivering as his eyes followed Trevor, who grabbed the bottle and took a shot of the beer again, then flopped on the edge of the bed. Sliding his suspender straps off of his shoulders, he pulled his tank top over his head and flipped it aside.

Then with urgent hands, he unbuckled and unbuttoned his pants and let them drop down. Sitting there naked, he was watching Michael with an anticipating look.

Michael's gaze rested on his bare chest, wide shoulders with a tattoo on the left arm, then flicked over the scarred abdomen wearing the signs of brawls of the past, the slim waist and the apparent hard-on between his thighs, and without thinking about it, after a swallow, his fingers clumsily started to unbutton his own shirt and damp pants, and he slowly tossed them aside as he got rid of them one by one. When he finally got to his feet, stepping toward the bed, he was naked as well, his movement still languid and confused in his post-orgasm mood.

“I don't believe I'm doing this.” he stated as he climbed on the bed where Trevor already reclined, and grabbed Michael instantly to pull him into a rough kiss thrusting into his mouth; but what Michael said made him irritated at once, so quickly that his tongue was still between Michael's lips when he grunted with annoyment.

“How d'you mean you don't believe, huh?” He punched into Michael's chest then dragged him to roll him sideways until he lay beneath him. “So high above me, are you, that you can't sink that low to fuck a guy like me?!” He pushed himself against Michael, digging his nails into the flesh of his sides, wildly grinding their hips together to make Michael feel his too needy hard-on. “Or so fucking miserable that you can't...” and he suddenly took a deep breath as he revelled in the delight of feeling his cock pressed against Michael's groins, “...that you can't trash yourself into getting off by anyone?” And he opened his mouth for Michael's neck, his teeth aiming to leave a mark on his skin.

But Michael caught his jaws and rolling him on his back, pinned him down. “Hey, man, relax.” Making him trapped beneath his own weight, he was staring into his eyes. “I just mean I'm... not doing this with guys, mostly, okay?” He bit on his lip and slid his palm over Trevor's body, pausing for a moment when reached his hips. “Okay?” he repeated in a lower, softer tone.

Trevor seemed to be silenced by the information, and only the glint in his eyes responded to Michael. It seemed to Michael that his wounded, distrustful look from his eyes maybe finally melted, and changed to something warm and fond. But it could only be the shadowplay of the bluish dim light vibing in the room.

Michael's hand glided between their bodies, his fingers wrapped around Trevor and squeezed him, riding his thumb over the head of his dick, making him gasp by pleasure. As he started to jerk him off, increasing the tightness of his grip, paying attention to Trevor's vocal reactions, Trevor clung to his neck, pressing their cheeks together, raggedly breathing. Instinctively, with thrusting rocking movements, Michael started to pick up the pace of Trevor's hips bucking up, and after a moment of enchanting grind together, Trevor suddenly felt something stone-hard against his hips.

“Michael... oh, Mikey...” he sighed then his voice faltered, his hands snaked on Michael's ass pulling him closer and with a jolt of his body he came to Michael's grip. Michael pressed his tightened lips to his temple.

When they finally parted, Trevor rolled on his side and watched Michael while he wiped his hand on the sheets.

“And what do you mean by _mostly_?” Trevor asked raspily.

Michael glanced at him. “By _mostly_ , I mean mostly.” His tone was cocky and matter-of-factly. “I haven't asked your résumé either.”

Trevor propped himself up on his elbows. Michael was still obviously aroused, but his taunting tone was that really provoked Trevor. He furrowed his brows. “And if I suck your juice right out of your high-horse balls, big guy, does it still qualify into the _mostly_ category or is it too much?”

The ice-cold confidence that temporarily returned into Michael's eyes a minute ago, disappeared again. Stunned, he was watching as Trevor's exploring hand ran along his thigh.

_* * *_

Michael perched on the edge of the bed; he was almost fully dressed, the last thing he found on the floor of the room was his wallet; he pushed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was still dark outside, although he expected the dawning soon. He knew he had to leave the hotel before anyone – seriously, anyone – could notice that Mr. De Santa spent the night in a man's room.

He took a glimpse on Trevor's sleeping frame buried among the sheets and pillows. He was lightly snoring. Michael cautiously, gently touched his ankle.

“Mmmmthe fuck is that?” and Trevor rolled to his other side.

“I have to go home, T. Hey... I'll send you a message tomorrow.” He scooted closer to him to see if he's awake to hear him, but couldn't be sure in the dark. So he had to leave, as quietly as he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The barely described Legion Square at the beginning of the chapter is based on the 1940s look of the Pershing Square - not the modern look of it, as it can be seen in GTA V.  
> The Spanish bungalow court mentioned - as a part of the Gentry Manor Hotel - looked in the 1940s almost-about identical as it can be visited in GTA V. (The real-life counterpart Chateau Marmont Hotel was built in the late '20s - early '30s.)


	6. Tuxedo Junction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tuxedo Junction" is a popular big band-style melody released in 1938, performed bands like the Glenn Miller Orchestra.

It wasn't an unusual sight for the El Mar Hotel receptionist guy that Trevor Philips was leaving his room only after noon, looking like he had spent the night wasted and unconscious instead of sleeping. As Mr. Philips could be noticed descending the stairs, his brim of hat casting a shadow over his upper face, his features still appeared maybe more well-rested than other days.

“Morning, Mr. Philips.” Melvin addressed him, glancing at Trevor cautiously, being well aware that it was around 1 PM already. “Did you have a good night's sleep?”

Trevor, like waking up from a cheerful morning haze, narrowed his look at Melvin as if suspecting him to pry.

“The hell you mean by that, Melvin?” and he stared at the receptionist's chubby face intimidatingly. He hunched over the reception desk, resting his elbows on it. “Are you trying to be funny with me or what?”

“Of course not, Mr. Philips! Just forget it.” Melvin corrected himself rapidly, sensing that he stepped on a potential land mine. One could never be cautious enough when trying to chat with Trevor. “Umm, uh, sticking to the business, you have a telephone message left right here, sir...” and he handed a piece of notebook paper over to Trevor from the key box of room 6.

Trevor ran his eyes over the handwritten message; it was short and to the point.

“ _I meet our man today at 6 for cocktail. Good luck. M._ ”

Trevor's look rested on the last letter for a few seconds with a somewhat affectionate flickering in his eyes. He knew that it was advisable not to give out full names to other parties, but regardless, he remembered Michael had started to call him “T” during the night – at some point. And although he exhaled longer than usual while he put the note into his inside pocket, Melvin didn't notice any signs of personal matters on him that would have proved that the message was anything more than business. The angry eyebrows and the dark piercing distrustful eyes looked like they did at any time.

“Is there anything else in particular that I can help you with...?” Melvin asked in a hesitant manner, but being lucky today, his patron was already by the door, strolling out.

“Don't you wish, Melvin. Mind your own fucking business.” Trevor's grated answer was heard as the hotel entrance door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

The cold breath of November crept under Michael's wool layers of suit as he made his way to the service entrance of his _Club Sapphire_ ; leaving his black sedan behind parked in the alleyway, he hustled up the stairs to the small porch that led to the back door. He was still wearing black for mourning Irene, only his necktie flashed some silky dark blue. The club was being opened for business in an hour, and Michael just arrived for checking if all the bar, the poker room, the girls and the security was in order for the evening.

The first thing he noted being weird was that no one guarded the door. As a rule, a thug should have paced by the door on the porch, or right inside of it, but as soon as he clutched the door handle and pushed the door in, he knew there was no guard inside either.

The second odd thing he sensed was the silence. Usually in this hour of the day, the staff was buzzing with preparations; now, as Michael entered, he heard no one around. He stopped and his right hand slowly slid under his suit jacket.

Someone behind his back pressed a cool metal object against his nape of neck, and Michael's hand stopped sliding.

“I wouldn't do it if I were you, Mr. De Santa. Let me see your hands.” a male voice with a slight Italian accent addressed him while the cold kiss of the metal on his neck was knocked against his skull more urgently. As Michael reluctantly raised both hands by his shoulders, a quick hand snaked upon his chest from behind and after a second of searching under Michael's jacket, it took away his handgun.

“Alright, now move on.” and the Italian accent shoved him forward, clearly suggesting the way to Michael's office.

As Michael entered his office room he had been roughly directed to, finding its door wide open, he found himself in quite a company. Right next to the door, his goon, Sonny was standing, a handgun pressed against his temple held by a stranger dark-haired thug in a cheap and colorful suit; by the window, sitting on a chair, his secretary, the middle-aged Martha tried to compose herself while also a handgun was pointed at her by another kind visitor with similar dark features and cheap suit. Behind his own desk, sitting comfortably as if he owned the place, a smug young face and a pair of smoldering dark eyes greeted Michael.

Of course, after meeting the initial Italian accent, the young face wasn't such a surprise for Michael.

“Hello, Tony.” he said as he approached the desk, lowering his hands, then taking a cigarette from the case that was lying on the top of the table. He put it between his lips. “Long time no see.”

Tony Balasco didn't look pleased by this greeting; he uncrossed his long legs that were covered all over by blue pinstriped suit pants, and leaned a bit forward, his smug amusement cracking and turning into an impatient annoyance.

“You've got a fucking nerve to say that, Michael, you know that? It was you who banned me from your clubs, remember?”

“Did I?” shrugged Michael in return, with a tone not the least concealing the extent how he despised and loathed this fellow who invaded his club and made weapons pointed at his employees. “Considering the way you chose to visit me, and your manners with my staff... I guess I was fucking right.” and he lit his cigarette.

“You know, Michael, after you killed one of my men, you apparently don't leave me no other choice than being armed to teeth when I want to talk to you.” Balasco leaned back on the chair and clearly he tried to relax and enjoy the situation, but a tense line of his mouth revealed his deep irritation by Michael's cocksure attitude.

De Santa rested his look on him with a glint of understanding in his eyes. He recalled that evening he and Trevor had been chased by that car full of gunmen through Pillbox Hill.

“So it was your men in that car, huh?...” He slowly took a drag and glanced aside, at Martha, who was sitting there motionless, her pale face expressing nothing else than blank focus. “Oh, that's rich, blaming me for defending myself from you. All this mess because of banning you?”

“Of course not, you prick. I could never stand you, anyways, honestly, but I took Irene's murder a bit too personal, if you get my drift.” Tony furrowed his brows as a failed attempt to show some gentle kind of emotions, like grief or distress. “You know that our fathers were close friends. Irene was like a sister to me. Family, you know what I mean? Something that you never had, you fucking wastrel.” He tried to mix as much disdain into his tone as he could. “But, you know, now, that Irene is dead, you don't count as Family anymore, Michael.” and he took a challenging and curious glimpse at Michael De Santa. “It was you who killed her, wasn't it?” he added.

Martha blinked then stared at Michael.

At first, Michael looked like preparing to respond, parting his lips, then with a stubborn half-shrug of his shoulder, he remained silent. He didn't want to bother even to explain himself to Balasco.

Balasco seemed to agree with that. “I don't fucking care if it was you or another wretch. It's over for you here, Michael, either way. Finito. You are done in Vinewood. I came here to make you an offer. So... why don't you sit down?”

For the first time since being in the room, Michael's look hardened and he pressed his lips tight. He stepped forward, stubbed his cigarette out on the ashtray and placed his palms on the desk leaning forward to stare into Tony's eyes, taunting him with a slight tilt of his predatory nose, and showing him the lurking shadows of fury in his eyes.

“Offer me a seat again in my very own office of my very own club, you scumbag, and I rip your tongue out.” he started in a lowered voice. “I know you from the year you set your damned foot in Vinewood as a whiny kid, and you've been and still are the last coward piece of scum among all the scums I know!”

Tony instinctively flinched. A tiny muffled sound of whimper was heard from the direction of Martha, but was cut off immediately by herself. The thugs kept standing frozen, staring impassively.

“And now, you let my man and my secretary go, and if you want something from me, tell me alone, if you can bring yourself at all to face me when I'm unarmed and you have three fucking guns!” Michael hissed, but Tony, regaining his smugness quickly, raised a hand.

“I can't do that, Michael, you know that better than me. The first thing they would do is call for reinforcements. You've got some sharp elbows on you though, I can give you that. That'll be a delight to do business with you – _diletto straordinario_ , huh?”

“Oh just go and fuck yourself.” said Michael with a dismissive wave as he turned his back on Balasco and began to pace up and down impatiently.

“I buy your business, Michael – both of your clubs and everything included. Here's the whole paperwork.” and Tony gestured towards a folder lying on the desk in front of him. “I have discussed this idea lately with Frank Crawley and he agreed on that. That would be highly beneficial for him. And if Mr. Crawley thinks it has to be done, then... who are we to contradict, am I right?”

Michael stilled by hearing the name of Crawley; he leaned his back against a metal chest of drawers and his look became thoughtful as he rested it on Balasco.

“Try not to take it too personally.” Tony added. ”You don't need the clubs anymore, anyways, since you're gonna end up in the gas chamber soon for what you have done, right? But before you die, I want to ask you the favor of signing these, motherfucker.” and he made a gesture toward the paper folder. “You have two days. You can make it checked by your accountant if you wish. I wouldn't advise you to claim any changes though. This is _the_ offer – not negotiable.” He stood up and took his grey fedora, indicating that he finished his business here. “I can show myself out.” and he gave a signal to his men that they were ready to leave.

The goons holstered their handguns and escorted Balasco as he, intentionally slowly, was making his way to the exit; but before heading through the doorway, Tony glanced back at the silent Michael.

“I wanted to ask you how Maisie is? I really miss her. Can't wait to meet her again.” And he curled the corner of his mouth into a blunt smile.

De Santa snapped in a beat and he would have darted himself at Balasco immediately with clenched fists if Sonny hadn't thrown himself to catch his arms and hold him back. “You! You are a dead man!” yelled Michael as Tony and his men left the office. His harsh voice surely was heard to catch up with them as they reached the exit, and Michael struggled against Sonny's firm hold on his body as if he still wanted to storm after them. “You are a dead man! Nobody fucks with my clubs! You're dead, you hear me?!”

“Mickey... Mickey, listen, fuck it, stop yourself.” Sonny breathed as he held him back. “You get yourself shot. You heard that he works for Crawley now. They can burn this whole stuff to ashes if you defy!”

Sonny and Martha both were looking at the panting Michael cautiously, watching as he wiped his mouth with his hand with a gesture of resigning fury. They still looked worried about what he would do next.

“Open the bar as usual.” said Michael eventually in a gravelly tone, rubbing his bridge of nose. “I have a meeting at six, so I have to leave soon.” He looked at his secretary who was standing there with forced restraint, as if nothing happened in the last half hour. “Martha, please give a phone call to Mr. Giles and tell him to have a look at those papers that putz left here for me. Ask him to make it checked over by the best lawyer he has.”

He made a broken sound in the back of his throat that sounded somewhere between a moan and a sigh. “I'm gonna kill that scum, anyway. Don't worry. Like hell.”

* * *

For a clueless passerby in Vinewood, it could seem that anyone could enter the bungalow court of the Gentry Manor Hotel from the Eclipse Boulevard without being stopped or questioned. The gate, although built cleverly surrounded by high brick fences to be discreetly hidden from plain view, was always open and led directly to the private courtyard. However, Trevor was well aware of the fact that hotels and bungalow courtyards in Los Santos usually hired their own hotel detective for security reasons and to keep things under control all day and night.

And if this was true, it was doubly true for the Gentry Manor Hotel, home for debauched movie stars, drug-addicted jazz musicians and corrupted business tycoons. Movie producers, too, like the late Gerald Schultz who had been so unfortunately clapped by someone recently, or Fred Quincy, business partner for the Richards Majestic Productions, who actually rented the Bungalow 5 in the Spanish courtyard.

Trevor Philips strolled along the narrow pool fountain in the middle of the courtyard, carrying a small wooden crate that was decorated with a “Just Picked Fruit Market” business logo on its top. Instead of his usual dirt-brown suit, he wore work boots, worker pants and checkered flannel jacket; he appeared to be looking for an address, referring every now and then to a piece of paper. When he finally encountered a middle-aged Latino woman dressed in black maid uniform who was not at all fazed by the sight of Trevor and seemed to mind her own business only, he suddenly looked so lost that she couldn't help addressing him.

“Hey, you – can I help you, man?”

Trevor sighed. “Uh, you know – the usual delivery for Miss Lamont – a crate of booze from the store; but I'm new to do delivering and can't find her fucking bungalow.”

The maid chuckled. “Number 3 over there. Just leave it by her door outside. She's out right now, but sure she would be pleased to see her fix when she comes home. Another goddam movie star, eh? I no understand these people, why no able to deal with popularity unless they drink until pass out?”

Trevor couldn't agree more. “You should've seen my previous address, beautiful. Like a crime scene.”

The maid waved dismissively as she was escorting Trevor to the door of number 3. “You don't have to describe it, baby – I do the cleaning after them day by day.”

Trevor placed the crate carefully by the entrance door then looked around. “You sure I can leave the booze here?”

The maid nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes, no worries, it's secure. No one steals here.” And as if she finished her duty, she was making her way toward the swimming pool level of the garden. Trevor stretched his arms to make them relieved after the carrying.

“Yeah, I can tell.” he replied with a hint of irony in his tone, but luckily the maid was already too far to overhear it.

* * *

The interior of Quincy's bungalow was nothing too pompous, but casual and simple. All the pieces of furniture were vibing a “vacation by the ocean” ambiance, and it consisted of two tiny rooms, a kitchen corner (equipped with even an icebox), a bathroom and a built-in closet. Although it looked small altogether, Trevor knew that he needed plenty of time for a careful search. Avoiding to get to close to any of the windows, he haphazardly lit a cigarette with a lighter he found on a table, let the smoke permeated the air and flopped into the chair by Quincy's desk.

It was a mess of notes, bills, movie scripts to review, letters from directors, film studios and fan mail, newspapers and celebrity gossip magazines. Trevor didn't waste much time to take a look at them, he tossed them aside with disgust and began to rummage in the drawers.

He found several photos showing Quincy posing in the company of starlets, reporters, movie industry guys in different settings – in front of studio office entrances, on studio backlots, sometimes inside bars or restaurants by white-clothed tables all the people grinning into the camera. On one of them he was obviously sitting next to Michael, both of them wearing formal evening suits, sitting so close that their shoulders slightly pressed against each other.

The more Trevor knew of Quincy, the less he liked him. That touch of that shoulder on the photo was enough for him to turn his growing dislike into abhorrence.

There was nothing specifically interesting though. He tapped the loose ash of his cigarette into a flower vase and carelessly opened a small leather notebook, expecting to find a telephone number register inside.

Well, it was an interesting logbook indeed. It reminded a kind of a diary, with dates and names mostly as initials only, followed by numbers. It wasn't hard to notice the recurrent “ _Irene DS_ ” note among the others, about once a month, regularly, followed by the same numbers – definitely not telephone numbers.

Trevor stomped out his cigarette on the carpet then heading to the kitchen he opened the icebox and checked its inside. When he seemed not to find that he was looking for, he made his way to the tidy and clean bathroom, still a bit steamy warm and lightly fragrant from a recent use by the owner.

Opening the mirrored cabinet above the sink, he discovered the small glass phials half-filled with soft white powder, carefully arranged, some of them wearing the original medical label of “Morphine Sulfate”. He didn't see any syringes around; very likely Quincy didn't use the stuff himself that he distributed. At least the turd had some fucking sense not to get off on downers.

Trevor checked his watch; it was 6.25 PM. He had about an hour more to comb the apartment for more details before Quincy would appear by the door, coming home after meeting Michael. He scratched his stubbly jaws then opened the door of the built-in garderobe.

* * *

The clinking sound of keys put into the lock was the noise that made Trevor alerted. He was resting in the armchair putting feet up on the coffee table, with heavy eyelids and a long-suffering expression on his features, but overhearing the sound of keys, he immediately took a pierced look on the entrance door of the bungalow. Fred Quincy finally arrived home.

He wore a three-piece suit with a crumpled shirt, and as he lurched inside, Trevor could bet it wasn't only one cocktail he shared with Michael. Quincy indeed looked like he needed a rest. His hand fumbled along the wall for the light switch in the darkness of the living room.

“At last, you grace me with your fucking presence, buddy. I thought I had to bunk here until morning.” Trevor's voice cut the silence of the darkened room.

Quincy's frame froze motionless. Trevor was waiting for his reply patiently.

“Who the fuck are you? And how did you get in here?” gasped Quincy as he regained his composure.

“Through the keyhole, idiot.” replied Trevor, adjusting his crotch. “So why don't you turn on the light and have a talk, huh?”

Quincy switched the lights and slowly approached Trevor as if he found a rat in the middle of his tidy and well-kept hotel room and now he couldn't believe his eyes to see that. Trevor was eyeballing him back, scanning him over from his sharply cut hair and well-fed cheeks to his chubby shape. Mild interest and some slight disgust were mixing together in Trevor's eyes.

“You'd better leave before I call the hotel detective, man – whoever the fuck you are. If you have stolen something, I advise you to hand it back right now, or else you are in a hell of a trouble.”

Trevor ignored Quincy's last words; without any haste, he pulled a pack of cigarette out of his pocket and took one into his mouth. “Don't be an idiot, Quincy. If I'd been here to rob you, I wouldn't have waited for you for hours until you come home. But sure, yeah, call the hotel dick if you want. He might be pleased to discover your little warehouse of drugs in the bathroom. Or better yet, this fine logbook of yours about your dealer business with actors, actresses, other fucking celebrities?” and Trevor waved his hand in the air holding Quincy's notebook in it.

As Quincy's look got fixed on the leather notebook in Trevor's hand, he suddenly appeared to be less tipsy than a moment before. He seemed to become considering, and he began to take Trevor measured with a cold, cautious glint in his eyes.

“What the hell you want from me?” and he slowly lowered himself to take a seat by his desk. His look fluttered aside, noticing the mess that Trevor's rummaging left behind.

“Great! Now that you ask me straight, buddy, I owe you a confession, alright?” Trevor, making the lighter flash, lit his cigarette, then emerged from the armchair and casually approached Quincy, offering him one from the pack, as well. Quincy rejected it. “I'm not a burglar, or a criminal, or a fucking movie fangirl to flop myself on my back on your casting couch – I've come to find evidence that you croaked Irene De Santa.”

Quincy's gaze got frozen on Trevor's face with shock; he wasn't able to moan a single word.

“I can see now that you were her dealer, right?” Trevor resumed. “Nothing very serious, I can give you that, just some occasional high and down here and there, just between friends, just to help her to deal with the fucking misery of being so rich and unhappy, boo-hoo-hoo, right?” he nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “You had a fucking appointment with her on the evening of her murder. The date's in your notebook. It was due to give her the usual fix, I assume?”

A faded gurgling sound of objecting was heard from Quincy's direction. “What? What... are you saying, you lunatic? I didn't...”

“But hey, you didn't hand it over to her – no sign of cash-and-carry in your smartass logbook, Quincy. When you met her for the last time, you knew that you wouldn't shift her fix to her – you met her for a different reason. You proposed to drive around Vinewood Hills, made her stop her car and beat her head to pulp, and you left her to die there on the driver seat. You just had to walk down to the Clinton Avenue and catch a cab.”

After a short pause, Quincy suddenly began to snicker. “You are crazy. You are officially crazy, dude. You should write scripts. Just need some more work on your plot-holes.”

Trevor, who was slowly pacing around Quincy, stopped behind him. “And you know what I found in your closet, you douche? Because, we all know, you wore a tuxedo that evening, didn't you? You were spotted in the Egyptian Theater at the beginning of that screening party of David fucking Richards – then you left, because, you know, no one saw you later there and you had to pick up the De Santa broad – but you wore a tux all the time, right? – even when you killed her.”

A moment of pause lingered in the room as Quincy silently tried to figure out where this was going.

“So I wasn't surprised to find your tux and the shirt in your closet, wrapped fresh in the laundry service bag of the hotel. You've been such a nutjob not to even remove the laundry label from it, clearly showing the date of 10th of November – the day after the murder.”

Quincy swallowed. “And so what if I ordered my tux to be laundered? I was partying the day before – it was soiled...”

“...yeah, fuck it, exactly, man, it was soiled with blood, and you were so clueless that you didn't even check the shirt in the bag that was brought back to you with a label that they were unable to remove all the stains?!”

Quincy turned backward on his seat to look straight into Trevor's face. It was obvious he didn't believe him and he scanned Trevor for discovering the signs of bluff on him.

“You know how it is... now they look light brown on your damned white shirt, but yeah, I'm sure any cops can see by the look of it what it is...” and with an honest, almost theatrical gesture of his hands, Trevor tilted his head as he stared into Fred Quincy's eyes.

Considering his chubby shape, Quincy jumped up surprisingly quickly, knocking over the chair, darting toward the exit, but Trevor tackled him in the same minute and slammed him to the floor in the middle of the room. The producer made an attempt to break from Trevor's grab trying to give a swift knee to his balls, but Trevor punched across Quincy's head with a furious swing before he could do that. Quincy's head jerked aside.

Trevor – just to be sure to slow him down – gripped his throat and smashed his head against the thin layer of rug on the floor again. Then he jumped to his feet and bringing out a small handgun from under his jacket, he aimed it at Quincy.

“You crazy piece of shit.” he breathed, with a low purr of threat lurking in his tone. “You want to play rough? I'm fucking thrilled by the idea, you know that? Let's get this party really started, buddy.”

“The fuck you want from me?!” yelled Quincy lying on his back, eyeing the handgun that was pointed at his face. “You want money? Who do you work for?”

Trevor stepped closer to his body, and as a gentle warning, he placed the sole of one of his work boots on Quincy's hand lying on the rug. It wasn't a heavy pressure on his palm and fingers, but Quincy cried out sharply nonetheless.

“I want you to confess, asshole. I give you a telephone number – you call it and you will tell the truth. It's personal, okay? If you do it, we are done. Unless...” and his boot teasingly pressed Quincy's fingers into the floor more firmly “... unless you want to play rough with me.”

* * *

Michael De Santa received two phone calls that night; the first came from Fred Quincy and was very unexpected, but just as intriguing. The second one was very expected, and came a bit later from Trevor's hotel room. Although Michael was listening at the first one almost speechless, he was ready to yell Trevor's brains out during the second one.

“So... happy?” he heard Trevor's low and hoarse voice on the phone when he finally was put through by the operator. “I, I mean, I know it sounds blasphemous when talking about murdering your wife, so, I mean, how did it go? Are you satisfied?”

Michael took a long deep breath, then unleashed his fury. “The – fuck – has – happened?! T! I told you to sneak in, look around and find something – not wait for him to come home, having a long chat with him, or torture him, or beat the shit out of him – and the least I wanted to, to reveal that I'm involved, you idiot! And you force him to call me at home – oh shit. Oh shit!”

“Michael, you wanted proof – you got the proof, right?” Trevor's tone hardened, but still sounded self-satisfied. “I really reeeeally don't understand you, bud. Sneak in then sneak out... this is not the way I work, okay? This isn't how I do my job. You know, if I want information, I face the dudes and ask them. And you know what, everything has gone just fine - just fucking swell!”

“Did you hurt him?” Michael asked with a real worry in his tone.

“Nah, Michael, take it easy, I did nothing serious, and now that you mention hurting, just to remind you, this prick had broken your wife's skull, so really? is it a dude whom you mess around with and drink fucking cocktails together? – pfft, what a fucking snake, this is what I really don't understand about you, bro.”

Michael made the biggest efforts to force himself cool down a little; he buried his fingers in his hair making it messy. He felt his own forehead and cheeks burning.

“Oh fuck that - alright – we'll talk about that later.” and he almost disconnected the line when Trevor addressed him again.

“Hey – so you're gonna come over tonight or what?”

Michael was caught so off-guard by this question that at first he wasn't able to respond a single word. The husky tone of the question was not the least veiled.

“Or that was all?” he heard a second question, and what he heard this time was not only a low husky tone that taunted and tempted him, but deep underneath, the longing from someone ready to be wounded.

And it eventually hit him. He let out a shaky breath, hoping it was not audible on the other end of the line. “Well, yeah, we have to talk anyway, don't we?” Michael replied. For a moment, both of them were only listening to the other one's breathing, then Michael parted his lips. “I'll be there soon.”

 


	7. One More Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "One More Tomorrow" was a popular song sung by Marjorie Hughes, released in 1946. (You can listen to it in the Fallout game universe, too.)
> 
> By the original plan, this chapter was intended to be the last one with the ending - but it proved to be too long, so I cut it to half and postponed the ending to the next one. Also because of narrative reasons, I wanted to end this one with the confrontation between Michael and Richards - it felt more dramatic this way.

“Michael, you should do it.”

In spite of the late hour of the night, all the mess of Trevor's daily clutter was clearly visible in the room; the yellowed shade of the old floor lamp had cast enough light to reveal the dirty plates on the table, the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray, the discarded pieces of male clothes scattered on the floor around, and Michael's necktie left hanging on the back of a chair.

Lying in the armchair, like being forgotten, a small leather notebook shared its company with a pack of laundered outfit, wrapped carefully in its brown store paper cover – both waiting for their fate to be decided.

On the bed, in a fumbled turmoil of sheets and covers, two pairs of bare legs were intertwined in a feverish brawl, like a prelude to a crime scene, when after a fight one should end to become a victim; but neither of the two men surrendered yet.

A strong bite caught Trevor's neck – then the teeth crawled down over his chest, the rough gesture melting into a long gliding of a tongue, stroking over his stomach and his lower belly, circling around his bellybutton, where the teeth became violent again, tasted his flesh and grasped his dark hair on his groins, pulling it harshly as if they wanted to rip them out, making Trevor writhe and hiss with the mixed pleasure of pain and excitement.

Originally, Michael didn't come over to end up in bed with Trevor. At least, when he arrived and Trevor let him in to his hotel room, he acted like he was so pissed off he could hardly control it. Storming at Trevor he clearly implied that their partnership was a failure, receiving the same mocking replies from Trevor as via their previous phone call; and somehow, when Trevor's taunting remarks began to mix up with nudges, and pokes, and grips, the mere physical contacts were more than enough for Michael to gradually become speechless. Eventually, he just glared intently, swallowed, and Trevor knew that it was the moment he could clash their mouths. Michael tugged him closer and angrily let themselves indulged, cursing under his breath the next moment when they broke the first kiss for air.

… “Michael – do it before I change my fucking mind!”

They weren't less eager than the night before but certainly they were less rushed. The hands and tongues took their time to explore more. It seemed like the mutual mistrust, doubts, and some initial anxiety from Michael's part were maybe left behind and both of them were ready to prey on the other one shamelessly. It was a battle though, for sure; in a minute, Trevor shoved Michael back into the headboard forcing his thighs apart, attacking his nipple, his claiming hands guiding themselves under him, under his balls; in the next moment it was Michael who forcefully flipped Trevor back, pinned him down, climbed on top of him and his hips thrusted into Trevor's groins so roughly that Trevor thought Michael would stab a hole into his stomach and a muffled half-cry half-chuckle escaped his lips on the idea.

Michael stopped as he heard that cry, his eyes meeting the other man's, panting as if he just stopped running. He saw a pair of darkened, warning eyes, hazed by waves of arousal, looking like anticipating something.

Trevor grabbed Michael's wrist, and pushing him aside, he rolled himself so that he was lying on his stomach now, then squirming close to Michael, he pulled his arm around him so that he could rest his chin on Michael's lower arm. This was the time he tried to phrase it, although later he didn't remember how it actually sounded: _“Michael – you should do it.”_ Something like that _._

It was doubtful if Michael heard it at all; he slowly kissed over the line of Trevor's spine while his fingers crept up along Trevor's thigh until they stopped on his mound of ass and dug into its flesh impatiently. Trevor reacted with a growl. _“_ _Michael – d_ _o it before I change my fucking mind!”_

Michael paused and shifting himself on Trevor almost covering his body with his, he kept breathing next to Trevor's ear. “You sure?”

“Before _I_ do it, Mikey.” The raggedness of his voice was enough to make Michael take a deep breath, slowly part and leave Trevor alone for a minute or two. Trevor heard him rummaging by the nightstand and felt the bed squeak under them as Michael returned; he felt as his warm skin touched his again with a snug feel, one of Michael's arm guiding itself around his shoulders, offering his lower arm as a resting spot for his chin again. Trevor grabbed his wrist and welcomed him back with a tender nibbly bite.

“Yeah... just bite on it if it hurts...” Michael's voice sounded just as teasing as dry and craving, and he didn't even finish the sentence when Trevor's body jolted, accompanied by his tortured moan. He seemed to be determined enough not to complain, although he couldn't help to hiss something about Michael's impatience into the sheets.

Which was not really the case; Michael, actually, played him, stretched him and prepared him slow, pressing his forehead against Trevor's head, breathing and kissing into his back of neck and shoulder from time to time, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. Only at that moment, a bit later, when instead of irritated groans, he heard a lustful sigh burst out of Trevor's mouth, followed by mumbling of inarticulated words, with rapid breathing, curving his head against a rising exhilaration, only that moment he climbed on top of him, spreading his thighs with his own.

The muscles in Trevor's shoulders tensed and a strong mouth clenched on Michael's lower arm.

For a moment, only Trevor's muffled cursing was heard as he was lying under Michael, nailed into the bed, spread for him, his teeth grasping Michael's skin to silence his first pain; but Michael didn't seem to be bothered by the bite, or show any signs of slowing down. Keeping Trevor weighed down, he began to thrust against him at a determined pace, relentless, definite, making it final, irrevocable. Trevor groaned at first and instinctively resisted, then slowly he seemed to sense that Michael entirely gave in to their new kind of intimacy and he soothed into his embrace. Soon both of them heard the other catching their breath, with the sounds of desperate, lustful, overwhelmed gasps.

Michael's fingers somehow slipped between Trevor's lips while he tried to silence his loud moans and Trevor eagerly sucked his fingers in, caressing them with his tongue. “...mmm love you...” A hardly audible mumble like that was heard and Michael, as if he wanted to cut that, adjusted his hips and pounded him with a different pace making Trevor whine loud with the shock. Fist crumpling the sheets, breathing quickening like of a sprinter, and with a desperate final groan, Michael's lips landed somewhere on the crook of Trevor's neck, his shaky breathing muted by his lover's skin.

* * *

Someone like a next-door neighbor must have been awake even at a night hour like this because they could overhear the radio from another room. Its sound, flowing with a gooey melody, was sometimes interrupted by short news or announcements, but the actual words were blurred, only the melodic, purring, calm tone of the male announcer was heard.

“So... now what?” asked Trevor as he lifted a bottle to his lips. He was reclining on the bed after opening a new bottle of beer from the icebox. Michael didn't yet fall asleep either. After some attempts to find the most comfortable position, he was lying on his back across the bed, resting his head on Trevor's naked belly. After Trevor took a long shot of the beer, he offered the bottle to Michael.

He slightly raised a brow in return. “What do you mean by “now what”? If you expect me to marry you now, surely you're gonna be disappointed.” and he reached for the bottle.

Trevor grunted. “You know Michael, you've got a talent to be such a downer even when joking. I meant what would you do now with our mutual friend, Fred? Gonna blow the whistle on him to the cops?” and with a gesture of his chin, he implied the incriminated notebook and the packed-wrapped tuxedo stuff dropped on the armchair.

Michael pressed the mouth of the bottle against his own, and with a slight movement of his hand, he let some beer foam down on his tongue. He swallowed slowly, while his features were shadowed by reluctance, though Trevor couldn't see that from his position. “I haven't decided yet. I guess I want to talk to Richards first.”

“Richards, huh? Oh wait – Michael, what the heck... don't tell me you keep planning to work with that snake after they killed your broad?!” and Trevor twisted aside slightly to be able to meet Michael's eyes. His look traced over his lover's face and he recognized that ice-cold confidence on his features that he already knew well.

“Jesus, Michael... The stars in your eyes. You're just as an idiot as all the others in this pathetic city.” and he made a small waving gesture as if he gave up.

Michael handed him the bottle of beer back, and nonchalantly replied with the most convincing tone he was able to produce. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“What I'm talking about, slick, is the fact that you are sold to this tycoon clown you are pining after, just because of the sentimental reasons of your boyhood dreams to become a fucking detective hero on the silver screen, and you're hoping that acting like one would justify everything you have done wrong? Man, what kind of crap is that?!” Trevor angrily gulped some beer. “And on top of that, those scumbags clearly take you as a mark, they just want to clean you out a million, seriously, man, you want to play the dupe in this?”

Michael snorted as he decided to interrupt any further monologue. “Hey! For a guy working as a hired gun for any crook who pays, you've got a lot to say about what I should do with my career.” He raised his head in order to gaze at Trevor who was sulking with the rest of the beer.

“What the hell is wrong with it if I want to come clean for the cops, and stay in business with the movie folks? … Hey, T, listen... I have proof against Quincy, I have nothing against Richards. I must figure out if I could make a deal with him first.”

At first Trevor just looked back at him in disbelief, then he handed the bottle over to him again. It had still beer in it. “What I admire in you most and in the first place, Mikey, is the utter lack of any kind of fucking loyalty.”

“Do I sense a hint of claim in your tone that I, I dunno, I should take some kind of fucking revenge, or what, for my wife? Do I?”

Trevor seemed to be uncertain for the first time. “Yeah... maybe... something like that.”

Michael's eyes reflected a mixture of true amazement and confusion. He quickly rubbed his bridge of nose. “T, that's solid coming from you, really. You are in bed with me stark naked, and you lecture me about loyalty for my wife?”

“Heh... I dunno... fuck, Mikey, they can all die for all I care, knowing the things she did, good riddance, but... but when I saw you the other day, when I tailed you the day you shot dead that producer cocksucker who'd been screwing her, and...” he suddenly stopped and looked like he didn't know how to phrase it.

“And what?” Michael kept his gaze with anticipation, he didn't even drink so to hear the response.

Trevor flipped a kind of unsettled gesture of hands as he hesitantly tried to describe. “Man, I was standing there looking at Schultz on the floor and I... knew you were just like me.”

Michael's face slowly darkened as his forehead flushed by the memory of the dead Schultz's face, covered by blood, and the bloody mess spattered all around that room. “T, there is no possible world on Earth where I'm just like you.” His voice sounded final and gravelly but he didn't mind it.

Clearly it didn't sound like a compliment. They glared for a long minute. Then Trevor tossed away a pillow and grabbed a sheet blanket to cover himself up to his waist. “Fine! fine! now I'm glad to hear it.” He threw himself back on the mattress then rolled aside turning his bare back to Michael. “And now fuck off. And turn out the lamp when you leave. … Bastard.” he muttered and closed his eyes with the utter determination of falling asleep at once, and not giving a damn about Michael De Santa for a while. A new gooey melody of radio broadcast music was flowing again through the thin hotel walls, mocking both of them.

* * *

The Richards Majestic office building was surrounded by a tiny park of palm trees, a smaller parking lot, some staff trailers around, and handy small vehicles that reminded Michael of golf carts. He was sitting in his black sedan parked in front of the office for a while, his hands on the wheel, as if he was waiting for something, or more likely, as if he hadn't decided yet to get out of the car or drive away.

It was nearly lunch time and a few young women passed by the parking lot; they looked like having a break from the current film shooting and while chatting and giggling, they were heading toward the studio lot gate, possibly for a quick lunch in the nearest bistro outside. Michael's look followed them; they wore identical frilly costumes, maybe chorus girls from an upcoming musical. Certainly they had the legs for that.

After them a man dressed in a wild west style cowboy costume crossed the parking lot; he stopped to light his cigarette and while taking his first drag, he glanced at Michael for a second. Then he followed the chorus girls toward the lot exit.

Michael's pondering gaze followed him as well. He seemed to come to a decision in the end; he opened the glove compartment and took a pistol out of it, checking then holstering it under his suit jacket. Then he opened the car door to get out.

* * *

“Good day, miss – may I speak to Mr. David Richards? Is he in?”

The secretary behind the desk took a rushed glance at Michael while typing the last words on her typewriter to finish some document. Then she stared at him adjusting her glasses on her nose, and with a quick touch she checked if her pinned up curles of hair were still in their right place on her head and still perfect. And of course they were.

“Do you have an appointment, sir? May I have your name please?” her look was as cold as a glass of drink on the rocks, wandering over Michael's frame in a best suit of his.

“Uhm, no – I don't; look, beautiful, tell him that Michael De Santa wants to have a word with him.”

The name seemed to ring a bell for her; her mood changed and the cold glare turned curious. “Mr. De Santa? Mr. Richards is expecting you. I'll let him know you are here in a minute.” She stood up and with an impersonal smile she approached a leather-padded door at the back of her office.

“Expecting me? Are you sure?” Michael asked with an honest confusion – he was prepared to fight for going in.

“Yes, he is - this way please.” she smiled again and the carefully manicured hand opened the door for him.

* * *

When Michael entered Richards’ office, three pairs of eyes stared at him right at once inside.

The first pair of eyes belonged to a 7-foot tall stuffed grizzly bear; Michael couldn't decide if it was a real hunting trophy or a fake movie prop.

The second pair of eyes belonged to David Richards who leaned back against his desk, hands in pockets, wearing suit waistcoat without the jacket, the sleeves of his striped shirt rolled up, his dark eyes radiated a cheerful and teasing gleam.

“Better late than never, Michael – come and join us! Hopefully Freddy has left some bourbon for us – have you, Freddy? … Thank you, Lorna...” he nodded for the secretary standing by the door outside. “Don't let anyone disturb us with Mr. De Santa.”

When Michael noticed whom the third pair of eyes belonged to, he knew why Richards was expecting his visit already. On a leather couch by the wall Fred Quincy was lounging with a whiskey glass in his hand, resting his look on Michael in a partly pissed off, partly thrilled way. His necktie was loosened and as he raised a hand as if waving Michael a welcoming greet, Michael realized that his hand was bandaged – professionally, like they did it in a hospital. The bandage covered his whole hand, but was especially thick around three wrapped fingers.

Quincy slowly curled his mouth into a grin and he made his fingers of bandaged hand lightly wobble, as a kind and friendly welcome: “Hello, Michael.”

The awkward pause was interrupted by Richards first. “Hey, I thought you can't move them.” he addressed Quincy, in a definitely less cheerful tone than he had spoken before.

“Only two of them are broken, I told you.” replied Quincy in a whiny tone. “Why don't you send Lorna out to fetch some lunch for us, Dave? I'm dying of hunger, fuck it.” and he kept staring at Michael who returned his gaze without any embarrassment.

Richards took a sympathetic and allied kind of look at Michael. He shoved his fists deeper into his pockets, let out a light sigh and raised his shoulders a bit.

“I must tell you, Michael, that it is all very unfortunate, and I can assure you I'm no happy, either, with how things have proceeded. And I'm not speaking about this...” and he tilted his head for the direction of Quincy, “...this stupid wretch and his fingers, but about what he had done and how he did it, and how you shouldn't have found out.”

Michael parted his lips to respond, but with a gesture of hand Richards stopped him, obviously as someone who got used to order others around. “Just would you let me finish, Michael, then I'll be more than glad to listen to you.”  He didn't look uneasy at all when he  rested his look on Michael with a smirking face.

“You shouldn't have found out. That is unforgivable that we let that happen, and you must know I'm deeply sorry. We arranged something that would have been beneficial for all of us, for you, too, and it should have been the beginning of a very advantageous partnership. You would stay clean – I gave you the alibi, Freddy did the dirty work – all that you should have done, Michael, is shut - your - _fucking_ – _mouth_!” and Richards' fists visibly clenched in his pockets as he raised his tone.

“And when you figured out” he resumed, “you didn't hold on, no, you immediately had to hire a character and put him on Fred, who broke his fingers, beat a confession out of him, like you were a kind of a fucking knight of justice, or what, making a loose end this way, as now we have at least one thug who _knows_.... are there others, too?” and he raised his eyebrows with a royal resentment.

“And after collecting the evidence against Freddy, you came here to meet me – and since you wanted to meet me, and not Freddy, the only thing I can guess about your intentions is that you have chosen not to blackmail him, but to be sure that I have the dirt on him and you want to convince me to flip him, and becoming my partner without him while he goes to jail?!”

Quincy flashed a usual cruel grin of his  while  observing the whole scene, with a face that implied that it wasn't the first  time he overheard a  monologue  like this  by David .  Richards stepped forward to approach Michael, slowly, keeping their eyes locked, fists still in his pockets – as if he was afraid to let them free because they would punch Michael in the face and he didn't want  to do  that.

“Let me tell you one thing about me and Freddy, Michael. It is inconceivable... unthinkable... unattainable... that I flip him ever. He's an idiot all right, and many times more quick-tempered than we all would like him to be – but what we have, is a bond, and that I never break.” He stood against Michael only inches away from him and his tone turned to more intimate and mellow, but still threatening. “Do you have any idea what is a bond like this, Michael?”

Michael's features flushed but it wasn't clear if due to his repressed rage or to the extent of repulsion against these two, or merely due to some kind of shame that he couldn't help but submit to this man who was a living legend talking to him, addressing him, offering him an entry to his world. He swallowed, cleared his throat and asked Richards in a raspy tone:

“I don't get it – you are the owner of the Richards Majestic – half of Vinewood is in your fucking pockets – and you had to have Irene killed? why take the risk? what were you thinking, for fuck’s sake?!” He raised his arms with a gesture of cluelessness.

Richards shrugged a shoulder, walked behind his desk and took a cigarette from a case. “It's a simple business transaction, my friend. We already have a cast, a script and we need the budget to start the shooting.” He glanced at Michael while lit his cigarette. “June Ballard agreed to play a leading role.” He obviously saw his statement's effect on Michael's face when he resumed. “That means an A-budget, considering her price. We need you to join us, Michael.”

Quincy howled a vulgar laugh, grinning at Richards, then at Michael. “Just you wait, Michael, until you meet her – oh gosh, old Junie, that broad...” Suddenly his features became serious and he sipped some bourbon. “Michael, buddy, don't tell me you have romantic notions in this. Don't be so tiring. Irene didn't even love you. Come on, we all remember what you told us when we first discussed this movie and you told us about her. You were practically begging for it! We just did you a favor.”

Finally these words triggered Michael's rage to burst out. His face hardened as he yelled at Quincy. “I was begging for what, you piece of shit?! For killing my wife?!”

“I wouldn't shout so loud Michael, if I were you” interrupted Richards quickly before things were becoming ugly. “Lorna is outside and can overhear you.”

“Yes, and we wouldn't like if I had to get her clipped, too, for knowing too much, am I right, Mickey?” Quincy put the rhetoric question with a hint in his tone that maybe he wouldn't really mind it if he had to make this sacrifice.

“Oh, that would be one hell of a loss, Lorna is a perfect assistant.” agreed Richards. He eyed Michael with a teasing, almost cheerful gleam in his eyes again, offering him that allied kind of look. “You know, Michael, we have made you a very wealthy man. You can't resurrect Irene whatever you do, but now you can make your dream come true, if you want. How does it feel to work with June Ballard and Gary Ward?”

Michael exhaled, then with his usual gesture, he shrugged one shoulder jerking his neck aside. “And what if I say to you to go to hell?”

Richards took a drag. “That would be very unfortunate, Michael, because, as we made you, we can just as easily burn you. I have many friends at the City Hall in LS, and if you join us in this production, you can sleep the innocents' dreams because you'll never be charged in this case. However, if you decide otherwise...” he stared at Michael for a moment, then with an intentional hint, he firmly stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

Michael's gaze rested on the stub for a minute. Then as if making an easy decision, lightheartedly, he raised his hands as a gesture of surrender. “Okay... so now what?”

Richards' look flickered for Michael and in this moment he really looked like a '30s movie icon of a past decade – suave and irresistible. He parted his lips to reply but before he could do that, Quincy barged in.

“Whoa, whoa, I'm sorry to interrupt your flirting, but safety first. We have this friendly character who broke into my bungalow, dealt with my fingers and anyways knows too much about me – the least I can ask from Mickey, you bastard, to name him, or help me to find him. I'm fucking eager to meet that cocksucker and to make sure I'm gonna be the last person in his life he ever meets.”

For the first time during their conversation, Michael took a seat on a chair nearby and instead of being flushed, now he looked slightly pale. His hand glided under his jacket, looking for his cigarette case.

“You don’t even have to be there, buddy” Quincy resumed, “just tell me where and what time I can find him. The rest is my trouble, not yours. Don’t even think about it anymore.”

Since both Richards and Quincy were staring at him with anticipation, clearly not understanding why Michael hesitated to answer immediately, he eventually nodded, put a cigarette between his lips and urged himself to reply.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll call you this evening. Are you sure you want to do it yourself? I can arrange him with my men.”

“Whoa, no way to miss the opportunity to gut him alive for what he did with me, Mickey.” and Quincy waved his bandaged hand before Michael’s nose. “So now, that we are all good, can I have my fucking lunch in the end? Come with us, Mickey, Davy has a favorite place. I’m buying.”

 


	8. Why don't you do right...(like some other men do)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why don't you do right...?" is a popular jazz/blues song from 1936; its best known version is sung by Peggy Lee in the 1940s. (You can also hear it in the Fallout game universe.)

_Women make a fool of you if you let them. Men too, for that matter. They even do when you don't let them, but shit, normally I can take care of myself and keep them at arm's length – you just mustn't let them crawl under your skin and take the control, alright? From the moment they grab your weakest fucking spot – typically your balls - or even deeper, the nest of your boyhood memories in your brain – they slay you every day with a few well-aimed phrases._

_Michael never looked to me as the type who lets himself go soft, but fuck me if I haven't sensed something about Irene from the start: that cold, considering look on that photo, that smug curve of those lips. Even now, when I'm closer to him – if it counts close at all when you screw with someone – I can't fucking dare to ask him the question: why did you marry her in the first place? For the dough only?_

_That was so fucking typical. Dudes who are only after the big dough, end up as being fooled mostly, as a rule. I never did a job or anything for the money only. Or alright, I told myself that I did, but now, only to myself, I fucking admit that I didn't. Maybe I was after the action, the heat, the buzzing in my veins, maybe for the feeling of being the last man standing, and sometimes, yes, sometimes I did it because I was ready to die for a brother, but damnit, the thing is, basically, that some turds and the shit they do make me sick – and I want to punch into the faces of those who make me sick._

_It was never about the money._

_* * *_

“It's true. When that producer guy met her, she was nineteen and turning tricks to buy hamburger for dinner on the Eclipse Boulevard. The _Lady of Shady Lane_ , huh...? Brother, my brother. Later when she was a star already, the gossip rags spread the rumor that she had been discovered standing behind a drug store counter. Oh hell yeah, a drug store counter, my ass.”

Fred Quincy chuckled softly and took a glance into the rearview mirror. With his bandaged left hand, he gently touched his own eyebrow as he checked his sharply cut hair.

“But it's alright, almost all of them debuted like this – by the sidewalk of the boulevard.” he resumed with a shrug. “The rent is high in Vinewood for a young chick without a job. And June's become a star, so who the heck remembers young Junie in the parking lot behind the diner? Some hair dye, some reshaping of nose and chin, and no one can recognize her face, buddy.”

Michael who was sitting next to Quincy in his sedan in the driver seat, held a loosely stapled thick document in his lap. On the pulp cover the typed title - “ _The Narrow Margin_ ” by Richards Majestic - hinted it wasn't anything else than a movie script. He turned some pages without seriously reading it, then tossed it gently behind, onto the backseat.

Quincy's look followed the gesture. “Hey, you should read it over some time. You might get ideas to share with us to change some parts of the script. After all, it's basically about actions between mobsters and coppers, bud.”

“Oh yeah?” Michael reacted. “I assume you find me just fitting into the mobster category, if I follow?”

“Come on, Mickey, don't be such a baby.” Quincy shrugged. “It's a solid stuff. Less of this artistic nonsense. Man, it's action, thrill and tension, and plenty of it. Hoods, broads who lie, and revolvers. People buy this shit lately.”

“And what if it flops?” Michael put the question which had been lurking in his mind these days.

Quincy didn't reply immediately, and it was clear by looking at his features that he didn't like the question. “You know how business works, Mickey.” he said reluctantly. “One day you win, next time you lose.”

Michael pressed his lips together and slowly fumbled a metal cigarette case out of an inner pocket. At the moment when he put a cigarette in his mouth, Freddy Quincy suddenly caught his wrist.

“Hey. Forget where we are?” and pointed at a bright-red sign displayed on the painted brick wall not far from their car they were sitting in: DANGER – GASOLINE – NO SMOKING.

Michael's sedan had parked on the parking lot next to an ALACO gas station located at a corner of the lower Cahuenga Blvd, in the middle of a seemingly quiet residential 'hood, south of Downtown Vinewood – single- and two-story family houses, small shops with blind dark display windows and decayed brick apartments; urban enough though, that in every ten minutes a car stopped for gas or for some other stuff that was on sale within the small store of the station. It was evening and near closing time though, and the traffic around the gas pumps began to thin.

They had been waiting in the car for a while; the front of their sedan was facing the opposite direction than the station, so if they wanted to keep an eye on the pumps or the store entrance, they had to glance into the rearview mirrors regularly. But the row of neon tubes under the streamlined station roof glowed well enough to make the pumps sharply visible, and everything around contrastingly dark.

The hardest part of sitting together in a car with Quincy for an hour was to avoid the topic of Irene. This elephant in the room made this whole endeavor terribly awkward, and though Freddy made attempts to chat about Vinewood gossip or Richards movies, Michael wasn't very responsive this evening.

And now he couldn't even smoke a cigarette. Fuck.

“Are you sure he would come? It's almost closing.” Quincy suddenly and impatiently changed his tone, raising a questioning eyebrow at De Santa, who knew exactly whom Freddy talked about.

“Can't you just have a rest for a second, Freddy? He told me he would, okay? I told you, you can buy benny without a prescription in this store if the attendant knows you and Philips buys his fix here regularly. I know he comes tonight, alright? Shit, aren't you restless.”

Michael turned around in his seat to take a glimpse on the gas station behind. It was still, as if anticipating something. The red-and-white neon tubes flickered once then kept on glowing.

_* * *_

“This is him.” announced Michael in a repressed tone to the mirror. Freddy was just trying to entertain himself, his unharmed right hand playing with a small graceful switchblade that he had fumbled out of his inner pocket and obviously had made plans with it for the near future. Now he instantly stopped clicking it and closed the blade, staring into the rearview with Michael in unison.

On the other side of the lot, a DeSoto Custom drove in, took a corner slow and was jammed to a stop near the pumps. The car door was jerked open and a tall slender shape of a man was out of it, although he had to walk a few steps into the pool of the glowing neon lights until his face could be recognized. It was Philips, wearing his usual faded brownish suit and greyish fedora, his face shadowed by stubble.

Instead of heading straight to the store, he walked like an alley cat to the abandoned ALACO pumps showing no signs of any haste, paused there for a second, comfortably checked his pockets then unexpectedly leaned down – like, as if he wanted to tie his shoelaces. But when he straightened up, he held a can of gasoline in hand.

Quincy slightly furrowed his brows as he was watching his moves with nervous eyes in the mirror. “What the hell he's doing? …” he murmured. “Don't say to me he wants to burn down the joint?!” He made a little uncomfortable shift in his seat by the idea.

Philips, as if it was the most natural behavior at a gas station, stirred towards the store entrance with his alley cat movement, carrying the gas can with ease. Two pairs of eyes followed his figure as he disappeared behind the door.

“What a heck was that?” darted Quincy at Michael accusingly.

“How should I know?!” Michael's shrug was intended to be weary only, but in his tone definitely a good amount of annoyance smoldered beneath, ready to burst into flames at any moment. “Maybe this is the signal to the dealer what he has come for.”

“Whatever. I'm going in.” and Quincy became impatient in such a rapidly growing pace that he would have jumped out of the car immediately if Michael's cold tone hadn't stopped him.

“Be cool, you idiot. I'm coming with you, you can't deal with it with broken fingers and one hand only, especially not Philips when you have only a fucking second before he notices you – if a second at all.” Michael quickly checked the magazine of his handgun. “Or you wanna die?”

“Fuck it, Mickey, I told you that...” Quincy started to oppose vehemently when suddenly both of them were cut to dead silent noticing movement by the gas store entrance again.

The young attendant guy emerged from his shop, casually fumbling with the sign on the door outside, turning it to “CLOSED”. Freddy and Michael could only observe his back, covered by a dark blue windbreaker and he wore a white cap on his head. The two men in the car looked at each other for a second with utter confusion. The attendant adjusted his windbreaker with a gesture of feeling cold, then with bored lazy movement he left the station strolling towards the boulevard, and the darkness consumed his figure right at the moment when he left the illuminated lot.

“...Okay, so Philips left through a backdoor and we missed it...?” Quincy breathed, trying to understand what was happening.

“No backdoor for the store, we checked it, remember? His car's still there.” Michael's reply rained on Quincy like an ice-cold shower. “He must be inside.” And though his voice sounded undoubtedly convinced, his face contradicted as it slightly darkened by the idea of not being able to entirely trust himself this time. Pressing his lips into a sharp line he addressed Freddy:

“If we break in now, we find him alone. We save the trouble with the staff.” Freddy already opened his mouth to argue again but Michael didn't give a damn to listen to him. “I wanna do it quick and clean, I told you – should look like a cheap robbery. Leave your butchery temper behind and use your pistol, not that pigsticker. I'll keep you covered.” He took a cautious side glance at Quincy, unable to look straight into his eyes, but he hardened his tone. “I want to finish this quick.”

“Frankly, Mickey, I don't give a fuck what you want.” Freddy's right hand was already on the door handle as he was preparing to dart out of the car. “This creepo, this is personal, okay? you think I haven't done this before? Fuck it's just a two-bit loogan for god's sake, Michael, I can take this!” and, eager for action, he pushed the door open, then with the same hand immediately grabbed his small Browning out of his holster as he got out.

“You'll be dead.” It was a statement, not a warning, as Michael placed his hands on the wheel, one of them holding his handgun.

“Maybe so.” Quincy replied with a smug grin and an irritating chuckle leaning in. “At least I enjoyed it.” he slammed the door shut and skittered across the parking lot, holding the weapon in one hand hanging down by his side.

De Santa didn't follow suit.

He was watching as Quincy reached for the store door knob, leaned softly against the door as if he wanted to press himself against a lover, then with a sudden and forceful blast of all his weight he pushed the door in. He stormed in, and the door was shut behind him as fast as he opened it. Michael had just a second to see that the lights were on inside the store. Then he heard one shot. Not a second shot ensued.

It took a moment for him to breathe a whispery “ _Fuck_...” and to scratch his receding forehead under his hat before he started his sedan, turned it and drove it closer to the station, parking it as close to the shop as possible, innocently, as if a late customer arrived. Since the shop door wasn't pulled open by either Quincy or any other living creature, Michael shrugged a shoulder with a gesture of preparing himself, and emerged from the driver seat.

Before he could do anyhing else, a familiar voice and a barrel of a gun pressed into his mid-back made him motionless.

_* * *_

“And I thought you wasn't an amateur like that to come after me with your own car. You think it doesn't stick out a fucking mile to me, to spot this black Buick, Michael? Christ, bro, what the hell were you thinking?!”

Michael tried to squint behind his back while slowly raising his hands shoulder-level; Trevor must have stood behind him not more than one step away. “Man, what's this fucking fuss with me?” he grumbled to Trevor. “Quincy haven't got a clue, and you know that.” As he still felt the metal poked into the back of his wool suit jacket and Trevor didn't show any sign to release him, Michael's tone became more impatient and some kind of gravelly filthier tone was added to it. “You are enjoying this, ain't you?”

At that moment, the store entrance door was opened wide and a pale, confused Fred Quincy stirred around the edge of the door, light sweat glittering on his forehead under the sharp neon lights. He still had his pistol: he was keeping it leveled at Trevor with his unharmed arm.

As both Trevor and Michael turned to face the sight of Quincy, Trevor's aim of handgun wandered from Michael's back to his temple, the barrel only inches from his skin. From his new angle, Michael could now check Trevor Philips: he was wearing a dark blue windbreaker over his shirt. The white cap didn't cover his unkempt hair anymore - he must have got rid of it moments before he had returned to the station.

“Hey, Freddy.” He greeted Quincy with an edge, while Michael stayed silent. “Just look at you, buddy, I like how you can handle yourself.” he cheered and made an urgent gesture. “What about Eddie inside? Don't tell me we suffered casualties...!? Fucking Eddie, I have to find a new dealer now.” and a shrug of his shoulder was all the moment of grief from his part. “Nah, I've been thinking of cutting it anyhow.”

They all shared a few quick seconds of silence, Quincy aiming at Trevor, and Trevor pointed his .45 handgun at Michael.

“Now come on, Freddy, put that weapon down, I don't have all night for this.” Philips growled losing his patience first. “Unless, you want to me to blow this fucker down, and with that, you can see your hopes for eight hundred thousands bucks fly away and being splashed on the windshield together with Mr. Millionaire's brains. And then you can fuck your fucking movie!”

Quincy seemed to give in; his look switched from the pressure of Michael's silent gaze to Philips' small finger tightening on the trigger and growing white at the tip.

“Okay.” he moaned. “Don't shoot, you fucking lunatic.” He cautiously crouched down and let his pistol be plopped on the ground, gently releasing it from his hand, while holding the other bandaged one higher.

“That's it, Freddy, put it on the ground and slide it over, and I'll let you and this slick go and we will stay friends, such good friends, believe it or not, that we will have the greeeaat pleasure to avoid one other for the rest of our lives.”

Quincy's Browning skidded over on the asphalt to hit Trevor's shoe tip. Philips quickly reached for it and dropped it into his inside pocket under his dark blue jacket. In the next moment, he plunged the barrel of his handgun into Michael's cheek. “Okay, let's go, open the trunk - I said open the trunk!”

“What?! the hell is wrong with you?” Michael rebelled as much as he could in a repressed tone. “We should get the fuck out of here before the cops arrive! There's a corpse inside the store, you idiot.”

“Exactly what I'm doing, slick. Open the trunk and help our friend Freddy to get in.” and without expecting any answer or objections, with a gentle but determined toss Philips forced Michael to step past him along the sedan, and crowded him from behind until they reached the rear of the car.

Fred Quincy didn't really need much time to regret his decision of surrender; certainly he showed no signs of intention to travel in a car trunk to anywhere. His lips twitched but he pressed them together, then snarled at Trevor, waving his bandaged hand hysterically: “What is this?! You told me you would let me go, you son of a bitch! What the hell you want from me, we are done!” and instead of keeping the safe distance from the son of a bitch, he approached him, then his intact right hand slipped under his jacket as fast as lightning and his next move was a quick dart forward with a pointed knife, with the sound of a soft click in the same second.

He miscalculated the distance though. The tip of the blade just scratched the dark blue fabric, lightly ripped it too, but his swing wasn't long enough to reach flesh.

Philips pounced on him at the next second as he heard the click of the switchblade; with his fist gripping the handgun he hit Quincy's head with the grip, hard enough to make him lose his balance. Freddy's head jerked back, he staggered, and made a muffled low sound. The Italian stiletto was immediately flipped through the air and landed on the concrete of the gas station. With a sudden flash of respect for Quincy in his eyes, Trevor caught him quickly by his neck and threw him on the top of the closed trunk of the sedan with such a force that Freddy's body collided and then slowly slumped onto the ground motionless.

De Santa was watching Quincy's body without any sympathy in his look, resting his hands on the roof of his car.

“I told you yesterday he would have a damned knife with him.” he addressed Philips eventually.

“Yeah, yeah, you told so, hotshot!” murmured Philips in a slightly irritated tone. “Now would you give me a hand here to squash him into this fucking trunk or you decided to relax there and watch as I do all the dirty work?”

“Into _my_ car? I thought we agreed to use your jacked one.”

“This brainless turd has killed Eddie inside believing it was me. We can't leave your registered car parking here next to a dead vic. Cops would love that. Man, you shouldn't even come by your own car here in the first place, you amateur!”

Michael didn't argue with that; he moved along to open the trunk then grabbed the legs of the seemingly unconscious Quincy. “Shit, I hope you haven't killed him.” then he moaned as they lifted the heavy body.

“I haven't! Although, just between you and me, Michael, god only knows you have every reasons to clip him, he killed your wife, he wanted to kill _me_...” and Trevor took a sour, ironic side glance at Michael saying these words - “...and it's not likely he would give up this idea after this evening _whatsoever_ , but no, you stand high above all this, in a fucking glory of morality, purified from your earlier sins...”

“Would you shut up for a minute just for a change? I'm here, ain't I?” Michael interrupted Trevor's preaching and slammed the top of the trunk, closing it on the creased body of Freddy Quincy.

“All what I'm saying is, Michael, that I can't kill him instead of you. It is a job that is yours. - And now, if you would excuse me, I'm going to fetch my jacket and hat from the joint and we can get the fuck out.” and he stormed through the door into the cursed establishment, while Michael slid under the wheel of his sedan ready to leave. It took a minute only for Trevor to return, wearing again his usual outfit, to slide into the car beside Michael and to command him the direction: “North Rockford Drive, fuckin' Vinewood Hills.”

_* * *_

The black sedan, with a softly purring engine, stood by the side on one of those dozens winding roads that climbed along the slopes of Vinewood Hills. Half on the road, half on the shoulder, not very close to the fencing on the steep edge, which gently reminded those who drove there that sharp turns in high speed could be dangerous. But no one was driving along that road this time; it wasn't an inhabited area in the hills, although they didn't park too high above North Rockford: down under the hill the small silent shacks and cottages rapidly multiplied to be added together into a mass of a city on the horizon.

In the night, the net of blocks of Vinewood was illuminated by thousands of tiny yellow lights from the curtained little windows, the blinking red signal lights of the radio towers and water towers on the rooftops of the highrises; and the brightest one, a glittered line of neon lights shining as sharp as if it was daylight, the West Vinewood Boulevard, like a diamond necklace on the ebony skin of a diva singer.

On the dark road without street lights, only the frame of one of the men was visible, leaning against the rear of the car, smoking, and obviously not giving a damn about the scenic view – he kept an eye on the road instead. Another one, just slightly shorter and slightly heavier, just slammed the car door and crumpled something into his fists before turned to catch the view, then immediately walked along the car toward the headlights that were turned on.

Thrown onto the road pavement, in front of the car, exposed and blinded by the headlights, the third man, Freddy Quincy was struggling to see anything; propped by his uninjured arm he was half-sitting half-reclining, lifting his bandaged hand eye-level to gain some shadow against the sharp lights to focus on the silhouette of the approaching man.

“Michael, you bastard?! is that you? you son of a bitch?! I can't believe you've set me up for this punk?! For a cheap drifter thug like this!? I thought you wanted to make pictures, you scum! What the hell you want to do now, killing me?!” and he blinked as he stared upward, at a man who was undoubtedly Michael De Santa, standing just two steps away from him, holding something flaccid in his hands. Quincy spat on the pavement. “Oh yeah, just do it, you coward little prick. David would know it was you and he'll fucking hunt you down for this. The fuck I was thinking when I wanted to partner you – you? Oh boy... a white trash from the Midwest? who never saw a school inside? and doesn't know which fork to use at a table?...Please...”

Quincy coughed up and suddenly he began to chortle at his own insult. He seemed to be quite entertained. Michael didn't interrupt him, and as if he had to leave by car soon, he pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves that he had held in hand. Quincy didn't miss the movement.

“So? You beat me dead? Or push me off the steep? As I heard that's the usual showdown for Vinewood goons like your kind.”

The man in the back, leaning against the trunk of the car, finished his cigarette and with a slightly impatient move, stomped on his cigarette butt. He still kept his eyes on the road.

After a beat of silence, Michael suddenly stepped forward and with a swing of all his weight he backhanded Freddy with a strong slap. Freddy's whole body jerked aside with burning cheeks and it was obvious he would be unable to go on talking for a little while.

“You're not worth to get my hands dirty.” Michael addressed him eventually. “Next time – when you're going to kill my wife – better you ask me first if I agree, you sack of shit.”

Quincy didn't make a single sound, catching his breath took all his efforts. The headlights lit the scene unsympathetically like limelights on a stage; the eucalyptus trees were greening artificially by the steep edge like stage backdrops.

“If you walk down this road, you can get the West Eclipse in half an hour. Unless you're found by a cougar on the way first. Maybe, if you're lucky, a car picks you up en route. Good luck with that.” and Michael made gestures as if he lightly brushed the dust off his lower arms. “And I'll tell you something: don't make me have to meet you again. If you ever get in my way, or put a finger on any of my men, I'll scalp you.”

He seemed to finish his business here because he turned to give a quick wave signal to Trevor at the back of the car and was heading for the passenger seat door, leaving Quincy lying on the road. Philips, though walked for the driver's side, stopped before getting in and burst into a disbelieving growl:

“Serious?! You can't mean you won't finish this snake off...”

“Nobody asked your opinion.” Michael growled back. He was definitely in his lousiest mood. “Just get the fuck in and drive.”

The black Buick sedan screeched to start, carefully passing by Quincy's body to avoid to hit or brush him, and with an accelerating speed it blended into the darkness of the next canyon leading northwest.

_* * *_

Trevor knew exactly where he wanted to arrive; there was a solid fishing and boating supply store by the road in the Tongva Valley, halfway between Vinewood and the small village of Harmony up north. He wasn't interested in the store though: a Ford pickup truck was waiting for him there on the parking lot by the store, loaded with his personal stuff – his weapons, some ammo, some clothes, and a set of some drugs he liked most. It was planned he would switch from Michael's car to the pickup there, and Michael would drive back to Vinewood alone. He could be lying wrapped in his own bed by the morning lights in his own fucking mansion, the bastard.

They both knew this would happen, and still, when Trevor stopped the sedan by the Whitewater Supply, he had an unsettled bitter feeling like a premonition of some sort. Generally, he had a good sense to smell when something didn't add up – and now he saw something tense on Michael's features that just didn't add up.

“Hey – what's wrong?” Trevor's voice was lower than usual and for a moment, free from any type of mocking. “Everything has gone by the plan.”

“Yeah, it has. Shit. I tell you there was a moment though when I wasn't sure you wouldn't shoot me dead, T. You scare the shit out of me sometimes.” Michael rubbed his back of neck as if he wanted to get rid of the tension and opened the door to get out.

The store building was abandoned, dark and shut; right behind it, rather audible than visible in the night, a creek was flowing along the canyon, with its harsh noise trying to lure all passersby to give it a try and buy something for fishing. Or boating.

Michael stopped by the top of wooden stairs that led down to a small dock over the creek and listened to the seething noise of the creek for a moment. When Trevor joined him, he glanced at him and asked him in a matter-of-factly tone: “So what are you gonna do now?”

Even in the dark it was obvious that Trevor's look flashed with excitement. With wide gestures and enthusiasm, he began to explain all as he paced up and down in front of Michael:

“Well, you know... I have this fellow in Blaine County, a reliable one, Oscar – he sent me a message that an airfield was on sale in the Grand Senora – worth a look. Not in a good condition, he says, the hangar is almost a wreckage, but... with a little pimp and effort it can be as good as new! We could buy it fifty-fifty and find a smart way to use it.”

The more he said, the smugger his tone became. “Oscar knows I have a pilot license - a real one, alright? not a fake! Hey, I can be the boss of my own fucking business at last – like you, you slick – how does it sound to you, like, for example... _Trevor Philips_ _Pacific_ _Transports_ _Inc._?!”

Michael's smile was so subtle that it showed more in his tone than on his lips: “Sounds legit as hell. And with a partner, huh?”

The question made Trevor silent. There was a hint in those last words that made him step closer to Michael and seek for his look, although he didn't dare to reach for a touch. But it wasn't necessary to do; Michael passed by his side to take a look at the empty parking site and the abandoned lot, just an instinctive cautious move of his head as he checked if they were really alone; in other circumstances, Trevor would have hated this instinctive gesture of his – but somehow, this time he loved it. He stood there struck motionless when Michael caught his neck and clashed their mouths.

Trevor could taste the violent possessiveness from Michael's part; maybe it was his own blood on his lips because of Michael's bite; he wanted to break the kiss for a second to take a breath but Michael's grip on his neck clamped hard and forced him to stay engaged. When Michael's aggressive kiss wandered on his jaw, then his neck, then quickly returned to his lips, he was melting in; he reached for Michael's waist and tugged him into a ruthless fight-like embrace.

“You sure you don't come with me?” he breathed into Michael's ear, his voice low and craving. “Just take a fucking week of break from this city. Fuck it, can't you afford a vacation sometimes?!” then nibbling on Mikey's ear he groaned into it: “Mmm... the things I can show you in a week...”

Sobering up a bit, Michael took his wrists into his hands and forcing them by his sides, slowed him down. “I can't, T. I have an unfinished business with an Italian prick called Tony Balasco.” He stopped kissing and the tension came back on his features. “He wants to take over my biz and I want to clean that up. Have you heard about him?”

“No. But I can stay to help.” and Trevor seemed to be casually ready to cancel all his plans about the airfield and Blaine County.

Michael shook his head. “Nah, I can deal with it. You should lay low until Quincy cools down.”

They walked together slowly across the parking site for the pickup truck that was waiting for them patiently; it looked weathered but trustable. Trevor climbed inside and slid behind the wheel, but before he started the engine, he rolled down the window to address Michael who was standing by.

“Hey. You know about a fishing village named Paleto Bay? It's up north of Vinewood by the ocean drive. You got to come visit sometime. Just one main street, few houses, a sheriff's office, a church and a grocery's... The grocery sells gas as well... The owner is one Maude - she's a good lady... and if you tell her you're Michael, and ask her my whereabouts, she's gonna tell you.”

Michael nodded without saying a word.

“Don't get yourself killed, Mikey.” Somehow Trevor couldn't leave without saying this. He turned on the engine and grabbed the wheel with both hands. When he drove out of the lot taking a turn to the road, Michael forced himself walk back to his own car instead of watching the silhouette of Trevor's truck as long as it disappeared in the darkness of the Tongva Valley.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I express my thanks to all readers who left comments, kudos or bookmarks here; they really help one to go on and proceed to finish a work. So thank you!  
> Secondly, I must apologize for all my grammatical and stylistic mistakes; English is a foreign language to me, and I can never express myself in English as precisely as if it was my first language. So - sorry about that!
> 
> About the characters:  
> \- the hardest part of implementing characters into a period AU was writing Trevor. In classic noir, most of the characters are deadpan snarkers with few words and without any faith in any moral values. Trevor can be a deadpan snarker too, but way too loud, harsh and theatrical for a noir, and although he's sharply cynical sometimes, he actually has faith in some non-material values. For a talented fic-writer, he could be an ideal narrator for a noir because of this, but I'm afraid, this challenge was too much for my own humble skills.  
> \- David Richards and Fred Quincy are mentioned characters in canon GTA V - they actually lived in Vinewood in the 1940s; and if you played the side mission "Murder Mystery", you know what Fred Quincy did in 1949. I tried to write both of them as close to canon as I could; Richards and Quincy, I think, were really like this, and also I wanted to show their bond as it is implied in canon.
> 
> About the unsolved murders:  
> The murders of Gerald Schultz and Mrs. De Santa remained officially unsolved in this fic. In our contemporary movies and TV shows we get used to the idea that murder cases are solved and police always finds the culprit; but trust me, the more realistic version is that they aren't solved in this fic. There were tons of unsolved murder cases in the '40s Los Angeles - the Black Dahlia case is just the most famous of them.
> 
> About the locations:  
> Los Santos and Vinewood are mostly based on the 1940s version of Los Angeles and Hollywood as it is built in the videogame L.A. Noire. Some locations, like the Wilson's Hotel apartment, the Hotel El Mar, or the Cavanaugh's Bar are actual L.A. Noire locations that can be visited inside and outside in-game. On the other hand, some parts can be visited in GTA V, like the bungalow court of the Gentry Manor Hotel, or the WhiteWater Activity Center in Tongva Valley at the end of the story.
> 
> About the ending:  
> Okay, so this is not a noir ending. It's not. A REAL noir ending would be:  
> \- Ending A: Michael would kill Trevor because he is forced to choose between a producer career or his rising love for him while he is a liability. And he chooses, cynically.  
> \- Ending B: Trevor would kill Michael because he realizes that M has betrayed him and agreed to eliminate him together with Quincy.  
> I seriously considered writing A or B. In the end, I realized I'm not able to hurt either of them - just like I wouldn't be able to choose ending A or B in GTA V. I'm hopelessly weak and love both of them.  
> \- Ending C: Michael or Trevor could have eliminated Quincy, the villain. But canon prevented me to write this - Quincy was still alive in 1949! So the only possible ending remained:  
> \- Ending D: the weakest one, as you can read it in Chapter 8. I know it's the weakest one, but you might understand that I wasn't able to shoot M or T dead.


End file.
